When I started studying nursing at Al Azhar University, I knew I wanted to work at al-Shifa Hospital. It was my dream.
It was the biggest, most prestigious hospital in the Gaza Strip. There, some of Palestine’s top doctors and nurses worked there. Additionally, a number of foreign medical missions would travel there to offer training and care.
At al-Shifa, there were many people who traveled from the north to the south of the Gaza Strip seeking medical care. In Arabic, the hospital’s name means “healing,” and it was in fact a hospital where the Palestinians of Gaza received healing.
I left nursing school in 2020 and attempted to work in the private sector. After several short-term jobs, I got into al-Shifa as a volunteer nurse.
I thoroughly enjoyed working in the emergency department. Every day, I went to work with enthusiasm and optimism. I would smile broadly at patients to help them with some of their pain. I’ve always enjoyed hearing patients’ thanksgivings for me.
In the emergency department, we were 80 nurses in total – both women and men – and we were all friends. In fact, some of my closest friends were colleagues at the hospital. Alaa was one of them. We worked together and went to coffee shops after work. She was a stunning woman who was incredibly generous and adored by everyone.
When the war broke out, it was through these friendships and the staff’s cohesion that helped me survive.
From the very first day, the hospital became overwhelmed with casualties. After my first shift ended that day, I spent an hour crying in the nurses room because I had witnessed so many injured people suffering.
In the hospital, there were more than a thousand wounded and martyrs in just a few days. The more people were brought in, the harder we worked, trying to save lives.
I had no idea that this heinous occurrence would last longer than a month. But it did.
Soon, the Israeli army called my family and informed us that we had to leave Gaza City. In this terrible time, I had to make a difficult choice: to be with my family or to be with the patients who needed me the most. I decided to stay.
I bid my last farewell to my southbound family in Rafah while residing at al-Shifa Hospital, my second home. Alaa also remained in place. We offered each other comfort and support.
The Israeli army placed a siege on the hospital in early November, prompting us to leave it. Our medical supplies began to diminish. Our power plants, which were supplying life-saving equipment, were quickly running out of fuel.
The moment when we ran out of fuel and oxygen and were unable to place the premature babies in the incubators was perhaps the most heartbreaking. They needed to be moved to an operating room where we made an effort to keep them warm. We had no oxygen to assist them because they were struggling to breathe. We lost eight innocent babies. That day, I can recall sitting and crying so loudly for those innocent people.
Then on November 15, Israeli soldiers stormed the complex. The attack came as a shock. The Israeli army was supposed to be protected by international law, but that was untrue.
Our administration informed us shortly before the raid that they had been informed that an Israeli medical complex was about to be stormed. We quickly unarmed the emergency department’s gate and gathered inside the nursing area in the middle of it. The next day, we saw Israeli soldiers surrounding the building. We were unable to leave, and our medical supplies were running out. The patients we had with us had to be treated, but we had a hard time doing so.
No water or food was left. I recall having a fainting sensation. For three days, I had not eaten anything. Due to the Israeli raid and the siege, some patients have died.
On November 18, Dr Mohammad Abu Salmiya, al-Shifa’s director, came to tell us that the Israelis had ordered the whole medical complex to be evacuated. If I had a choice, I would have stayed, but the Israeli army did not leave me one.
Hundreds of us, doctors and nurses, were forced to leave, along with many patients. About 20 of the staff members stayed behind, leaving only bed-bound patients at the time. Dr. Abu Salmiya remained in the area and was later detained. For the following seven months, he disappeared.
According to Israeli orders, I and dozens of other colleagues travel south. Alaa and a few others defied these instructions and headed north to their families. We walked for a lot of kilometers before passing Israeli checkpoints where we had to wait for hours before discovering a donkey cart that could take us some of the way.
When we finally arrived in Rafah, I was beyond happy to see my family. There was a lot of relief and crying. However, shocking news quickly overshadowed my family’s joy.
Alaa, who had been displaced in a school shelter, was able to move back to her family in Beit Lahiya. However, when she and her brother went to their deserted home to retrieve some belongings, an Israeli missile struck the structure, killing them.
She passed away, which shocked everyone greatly. One of the sweetest people I had ever known, who loved to help others and was there for me when times were difficult, passed away a year later.
In March, Israeli soldiers returned to al-Shifa. For two weeks, they rampaged through the hospital, leaving behind death and devastation. There was no structure in the medical complex that had not been destroyed or burned down. From a place of healing, al-Shifa was transformed into a graveyard.
When I return to the hospital, I’m not sure how I’ll feel. How will it make me feel knowing that my favorite professional accomplishments and memories of my closest friends have also been the site of displacement, forced disappearances, and death?
Today, more than a year after I lost my workplace, I live in a tent and care for the ill in a makeshift clinic. My future, our future is uncertain. But in the new year, I have a dream: to see al-Shifa as it used to be – grand and beautiful.
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