هكذا هي حياة طالب الطب في مستشفى شهداء الأقصى في غزة
التاريخ: 
28/10/2024
المؤلف: 

I step out the door on my way to the hospital, my heart sinks. The streets are lined with tents, sewage is overflowing, and solid waste is accumulating everywhere. A truck with large wheels once splashed me with contaminated water, soaking my clothes and stinging my eyes. At that moment, I felt time stand still. How did we get here? The majority of the population in Gaza is forced to live in a designated “humanitarian zone” — Al Mawasi, which was struck by Israeli bombs nonetheless — representing just 11% of the Strip. Even before the war, the area was struggling with inadequate infrastructure. Facilities that were designed for hundreds now have to accommodate hundreds of thousands of people. What should I expect? Zaina, where are you? Are you still in Gaza? I thought you were going abroad to continue your studies. Are you really conducting your clinical rotations in Gaza during wartime? How is that even possible? Isn’t it dangerous? Aren’t you afraid?

These are just a few of the questions I have been asked ever since people found out that I’m completing my clinical rotations at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir Al-Balah. I wake up knowing that each day will be filled with intense study sessions, long waiting hours, and patient stories that will stay with me forever.

Arriving at the hospital late, after the splashing incident, I felt dirty. I felt like I could be a source of infection rather than a caregiver. I rushed home to clean up but still arrived an hour and a half late to my shift, missing part of the bedside sessions. Being late was unusual for me; I used to be punctual, attending early meetings and rounds. I used to enjoy seeing the residents present their cases each morning. Now, there is no meeting room, no morning meeting, and the residents' eyes reflect a deep sense of darkness and despair.

Each day at the hospital presents new challenges. Finding space to discuss cases with our doctor is difficult, as the teaching rooms are often filled with patients. We still needed guidance from the doctors when we saw patients, took patient histories, or practiced physical examinations. The second-floor balcony, overlooking the hospital yard filled with tents and offering a view of Deir Al-Balah, has become our favorite spot. We often wait for a few hours until it’s free of other student groups. The hospital has effectively turned into one large surgical department — surgical patients are everywhere. There are no separate surgical or medical wards; everything is mixed together, and even the emergency room is filled with admitted patients. Common surgical cases like pancreatitis, cholecystitis, and appendicitis have given way to injuries caused by explosions from Israeli airstrikes and burn cases. As students, the only surge of energy we look forward to is when we stand in front of the emergency entrance, guessing whether the ambulance will bring a surgical or medical case so we could help.

As my surgery rotation nears its end, I can’t hold back the tears when I think of one patient’s wife. The patient was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer and his health was deteriorating rapidly. His wife kept asking us to do anything to help him. It was straightforward to explain that her husband needed palliative care, not surgical intervention. The hospital specializing in oncological care had been destroyed and referrals to hospitals outside of Gaza were impossible due to closed borders. It was heartbreaking for her to accept this. She told us repeatedly, “I don’t want to lose him; he’s my everything in this world.” This made me think of Samah, a young woman in her thirties battling breast cancer. I met her just four days before the genocide began. She was relieved that only three chemotherapy sessions remained and eagerly anticipated returning to good health. What has happened to her? Was she able to complete her treatment? And what about Doaa, a mother of five, diagnosed with late-stage cancer? She wanted to spend her remaining time on this earth with her children. Is she still alive? Could a miracle have happened that saved her?

With the Israeli Occupation Forces’ continuous forced evacuation orders in Deir Al-Balah, our medical education at Al-Aqsa Hospital is threatened with interruption before we can complete our final clinical rotation. The dream of finally graduating and becoming doctors feels increasingly uncertain. Despite the overwhelming harsh reality we face here in Gaza, the stories of our patients remind us why we persevere. We push through adversity, not only for ourselves but for those who need our care the most, even as our own dreams hang in the balance.