Before the start of this disaster, I lived the happiest days of my life, surrounded by the warmth of my family, the affection of my friends and dreams that felt at hand. I spent most of 2023 preparing my diploma and preparing myself to pass conference rooms for practical training areas, turning between Islamic University laboratories in Gaza and eyes for the eyes spread over the Gaza Strip.
On the evening of October 6, I organized my books, tools and Mater Blanc, preparing for a long day of training at the Eye Al-Nasr hospital in Gaza. My feelings were a mixture of excitement and nervousness, but I did not know that the night would mark the end of my peaceful life. At 6 a.m. the next morning, October 7, it was not the sound of my alarm that woke me up, but the sound of the rockets. I opened my eyes, asking myself: “Is it a dream or a nightmare?” But the truth was impossible to deny. A war had started, transforming our lives formerly brilliant into an endless nightmare.
On October 8, I learned the new devastator that my university had been destroyed – her laboratories, her classrooms and each place where I learned to help patients. Even the graduation room, where I imagined myself celebrating at the end of the year, had turned into rubble. I felt a great pain in my chest, as if a part of my soul had collapsed. Everything collapsed so suddenly. Overnight, everything I dreamed of was reduced to ashes.
On December 27, 2023, the bombing of our neighborhood intensified, and we were forced to leave our house and flee from the so -called humanitarian areas of Rafah. There, we took refuge in one of the hundreds of tents which had become the only refuge for the survivors.
There was one thing I was still on: my knowledge and my modest experience in the field of eye care. I started to notice children and women with persistent eye infections, caused by the inhalation of smoke and dust and constant exposure to dirt. Even I developed an infection in my own eyes. I looked at them, then to myself, and I knew I couldn’t sit and watch. I wanted to be a reason why someone healed, a reason why the light returned to their eyes.
In December 2024, I volunteered at Al-Razi Health Center, working at the Clinic Eye under the supervision of a remarkably compassionate doctor. At first, I was afraid and hesitant. The war had wreaked havoc on my memory and shook my confidence. But the doctor told me words that I will never forget: “You are a worker. You will remember everything. And you will become a tool to heal others.”
Patients began to arrive everywhere: Gaza Nord, Central and South. The clinic was not equipped for such figures, but we did everything we could. I have witnessed cases that I had never seen before:
A four -year -old girl has completely lost her vision due to serious corneal burns caused by an explosion near her house. She shouted in pain. She was far too young to endure such suffering. Despite the lack of resources, she underwent surgery to remove her damaged eye and replace it with artificial surgery.
A man at the end of the thirties was struck by bursts of shells in the face and suffered fractures of the skull. He had a torn upper eyelid and a deep cornean wound. He needed delicate surgery, but it was postponed several times because it required repeated general anesthesia, which was impossible in current conditions.
A young woman in her twenties took a direct blow which caused an orbital fracture and muscle tears around the eye, leading to hypotropy and to facial asymmetry. She broke down emotionally with each visit. As a young woman like her, I felt her injury as if it was mine.
There was also an elderly man suffering from eye cancer. The disease gnawed at the eye, and there was a strong possibility that it can spread to the other. But we couldn’t help him. Resources were not available and he could not travel for treatment due to the closure of borders. With each visit, I did my best to cheer up, hoping that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, I could relieve his pain, even if it’s just a little.
Most children suffered from chronic conjunctivitis and the appearance of Chalazion (fatty cysts on the eyelid), due to dust, touching their eyes with their hands and a lack of hygiene in the camps.
The elderly, most of whom were suffering from cataracts, a condition that causes progressive vision loss, needs surgery to eliminate lenses and implantation of intraocular lenses, but all these operations have been postponed due to the disturbance of communication with North Gaza, the only place in the band where the necessary equipment was available.
During these months, the operating rooms turned into real teaching laboratories for me after the occupation destroyed the university laboratory. I accompanied the doctor to each surgical intervention, by making them by the light of hope and the sounds of the bombing. Once, a rocket hit a house next to the center while we were inside the operating room. Despite the panic, we kept ourselves together. We did not decompose each other. Instead, we have successfully completed the operation.
In a few moments of free time, there was only room to talk about medicine. We talked about pain, our lost houses, our missing parents, reported dreams. The war has spoken from all corners of the clinic.
We have encountered serious difficulties due to the shortage of drugs. We had to prescribe alternatives whose side effects we did not know, but what could we do? There was no other choice. The crossings were closed and the drugs were not available.
One day, during surgery, I felt dizzy and I had severe chest pain. I could not bear it and I passed out from extreme exhaustion, malnutrition and psychological pressure. I was just a person trying to hold. But I did not give up. I came back the same day to continue my work at the clinic.
In January 2025, with the announcement of a temporary ceasefire, the university resumed sessions at the European hospital. I only went four times. The road was long and the place was sorry, filled with remains of war. Only one kilometer (two thirds of a mile) from the clinic window, tanks were parked. I wondered: should I flee or stay? The ceasefire was not a guarantee. Indeed, the days did not spend before the return of the war and that the sessions were canceled, after the occupation took control of the area.
We came back to square one.
I’m still there, moving between health centers, healing, listening and essaying to shed light in people’s lives, literally. My goal is not forgotten. My mind is not broken. I was done to help. And I will continue, even by smoke and rubble, with stable hands and an unshakable heart, until light returns for all of us.
The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
