Three Weeks at Gaza European Hospital: A Medical Mission Journal
Week 2: Emergency displacement and border closures. Supplies start to run out. Faith under fire. Read previous entry here:“Three Weeks at Gaza European Hospital, Week 1.”
DAY 8: GAZA EUROPEAN HOSPITAL
Alas, the Gazans are human. But they are guided by principles that I am only beginning to understand. There is an emergency room local staff member here who is addicted to propofol. Propofol is an uncommon medication for someone to acquire an addiction. I had heard that this local staff member suffered from insomnia due to the horrors he has witnessed over the last seven months. I felt sorry for him. At any rate, this known addict came into my operating room while I was performing a sterile procedure on a patient. He stood between me and my anesthesia cart, which had propofol and fentanyl vials in plain view, and asked if I could give him some propofol and fentanyl for a “sedation procedure that needed to be done in the Emergency Room.” Not wanting to engage an addict, I told him I couldn’t help him because I was in a sterile procedure. I thought he would push the issue, but he just left, so I quickly looked over at my anesthesia cart and I saw that the propofol and fentanyl vials were still there! I have never seen an addict pass on an opportunity to swipe drugs. I found out later that he went to my wife’s operating room and asked for propofol and fentanyl, and she unknowingly gave it to him. This addict was polite enough to ask, did not beg, and drew the line at theft! Even in the face of addiction and physical conditions that would bring any human to their knees, this man seemed to have a boundary, guiding principles, that he would not cross.
DAY 9: RAFAH
We have been in Gaza for less than two weeks and have already been displaced once, when our team leader told us that our safe house was no longer safe. This experience was one of the scariest of my life, as the bombings and crossfire got closer and more frequent, and there was no word from the Israeli military division that was supposed to coordinate with the World Health Organization to ensure safe passage for us. We grabbed as many of our things as we could from the safe house, got into a van, and waited for almost two hours. The decision of whether to move or to continue to wait was unbearable, as anything that moves during one of these invasions also becomes a target. But staying was clearly no longer an option. This was just one displacement.
At the hospital, I voice my frustration over the situation. Ahmed, one of the local staff anesthesiologists, listens sympathetically, asking questions the whole time. I don’t know why I confided in him. Perhaps because he navigated the Gaza European Hospital operating rooms in a manner that resembled the same unfamiliarity I had. His fluency in English makes it very easy to communicate with him. He is a little shorter than me and has a soft smile—a smile so genuine that you can’t help but smile back. He is skinny, but in a unique way that makes him appear well built. His arms are tanned aside from his wrists, which have peculiar marks around them. He must have listened to me for about an hour. He gives me the feeling that he genuinely cares about my well being. He blesses me with encouragement. I finally ask him about his situation. I learn that he worked as an internal medicine attending in another hospital in northern Gaza. He had a change of heart, switched to anesthesia, and was scheduled to graduate this summer. As I asked him how he got to Gaza European Hospital, a younger female anesthesiology resident, Bedoor, walked by and greeted us. Ahmed asked her to join our conversation, speaking very highly of her. Bedoor had been Ahmed’s junior resident, he tells me. After the Israeli Military sieged their hospital in northern Gaza, Ahmed was unlawfully detained and taken to an Israeli prison. His wrists were tied, hence the marks around them, and he was starved and beaten for 50 days. Bedoor was able to escape the besieged hospital and contact Ahmed’s wife and two-year-old daughter. She informed them that if Ahmed were to survive, he would meet them at Gaza European Hospital. Just three weeks before our arrival in Gaza, Ahmed was reunited with his wife and daughter.
The Gazan people have been displaced many times over the last seven months. Families have been made homeless, for no reason that they can understand. And because nearly all civilian infrastructure, wells, and farms have been deliberately destroyed or damaged, the entire population has become reliant on aid trucks for delivery of food and water. Lack of clean water, sanitation, and waste management all contribute to rising rates of acute respiratory infections, acute kidney injury, acute liver disease, and gastroenteritis. Supplies are exhausted and innocent people are dying from treatable medical conditions like asthma exacerbation, poorly controlled diabetes, hypertension, and stress-induced heart attacks.
DAY 10: GAZA EUROPEAN HOSPITAL
It is a surreal feeling to hear bombs going off at night and then hear the Gazans cheering as they watch Real Madrid score goals in the Champions League soccer match. They care about sports, about looking good, about learning. I think prior to last fall, they had a 97% literacy rate. They are up to date with the latest in world news and entertainment. One local staff member convinced me to start watching a television series called Shogun. My British colleague told me, “They even knew that Arsenal was going to choke in the last stages of the title race and that Klopp was leaving after years of service at Anfield. Most of them have better Premier League fantasy football scores than I do.”
The Gazans are good people. As I walk around, they come and greet me: “Good morning, how are you?” “God bless you.” “Thank you for coming to Gaza and for not forgetting us.” “Can I get you anything?” “Please, come to my tent for a cup of tea.”
Throughout my career, I have seen traumas, poverty, despair, homelessness, and unfairness, but never have I seen a population respond so honorably to such a scale of injustice as I am witnessing here in Gaza. I have heard lectures from and read books by humanitarians and medical professionals who have advocated for the poor, some of which were authored by the late Paul Farmer. My brother worked beside Dr. Paul Farmer in Haiti and Rwanda. My mother treated his allergies. He ate dinner at our home. He was famously approachable and likable and just pointy-nose nerdy. He was a noble figure, who enjoyed spending his time with three types of people: the poor, the prisoners, and students. But when I was around him, I almost disliked him, because I felt inadequate as a human being. Paul Farmer showed that it is possible to do the right thing no matter the circumstances, no matter the sacrifice. I get that same feeling of inadequacy when I work alongside the local Gazan professionals, who come to work every day as unpaid volunteers because it is the right thing to do. Amid such unfair cruelty and despair dropped upon this land, they unwaveringly insert whatever good they can into this world, with whatever capacity they have. Many times now, I have noticed that when a trauma arrives in the emergency room, the local medical personnel go directly to the blood bank to donate blood from their own malnourished and anemic bodies. It is an honor to work beside them and it is a shame that the world community finds it so difficult to stop this injustice and provide humanitarian aid to such a vulnerable but dignified population that has exemplified the pinnacle of human behavior, morality, patience, and forgiveness over the last seven months.
The Gazans have been forced into poverty. They have been treated as prisoners. Yet, they are students with aspirations and dreams to build a better and more humane world. I enjoy spending my time with them. I hope that we, the privileged people of the world, have the courage to do the right thing and advocate for humanitarian aid and freedom for these noble Palestinian people.
DAY 11: GAZA EUROPEAN HOSPITAL
Today we heard that the Israeli military seized the Rafah Crossing. There is now no entrance, no exit, and no flow of aid for any person in Gaza, including us. We do not know what this means for the remainder of our mission. Meanwhile, there are relentless airstrikes and continued, devastating casualties.
A while back, I saw a social media clip of Elon Musk talking about the situation in Gaza. Paraphrasing, he said: “It is safe to say that if you kill someone’s child, you’ll get a few people who turn against you. And if you turn more people against you than you can kill, then that is a losing strategy.” I think Water Isaacson’s biography paints Musk as a genius, particularly at game strategy. But after almost eight months of one of the most unfair and brutal attacks on a civilian population, the Gazans have been thrown into the most desperate condition on Earth. I saw and heard nearly continuous drones, bombs, and armed unmanned aerial vehicles, on the other side of which may as well have been a teenager playing Call of Duty. Every person I meet in Gaza has personally lost someone they love from these military toys. You would think one or two of them, who have lost everything, would be desperate enough to steal or perhaps take hostage an American medical convoy and request a ransom. It seems to me that the people of Gaza aren’t playing a strategy game. They’re just trying to live their lives in peace. And what they offer this world is the best example of patience, resilience, selflessness, and forgiveness. These are authentic, God-fearing people and I don’t care if you go to a church, synagogue, temple, or mosque, if you are a doctor, policeman, soldier, politician, farmer, or software engineer: If you are apathetic towards the killing of these people or if your excuse is that you are simply following orders, then you may need to take a hard look in the mirror to recognize who the ungodly people really are.
DAY 12: GAZA EUROPEAN HOSPITAL
It has been another long day in the operating room. Cases ran again until 4 AM. As I get ready to take a nap, I imagine myself in the comfort of my Southern California home with my family. My daughter is reading. My son is playing with his toy cars, and periodically, he gets up to annoy his big sister. My wife is nursing our nine-month-old. And then I imagine that the clothes we are wearing, the book my daughter is reading, and that handful of toy cars are all that we will have for the next eight months. Our furniture, food, photographs, gym memberships, computers, 401k, retirement, bank accounts are all wiped out. Our house is demolished and we are left on the streets with whatever we have on our bodies. This is how the Gazans have been living. Yet they are still able to provide us with such hospitality at every turn.
As an anesthesiologist, I have the privilege of administering medications that will disinhibit patients so that they express their true feelings and behavior at a subconscious level. And I have witnessed time and again that once disinhibited, these innocent patients in Gaza, most of them younger than me, will pray. Not for themselves or for a good surgical outcome, but for God to bless all of humanity; they are grateful for what they have, and they pray for patience and for forgiveness. They are selfless, thankful, and forgiving at their very core. And when I walk from the operating rooms to the intensive care units, I see them in the hallways between the tents that house them, getting down on their knees and putting their forehead to the ground multiple times a day to selflessly pray for patience and forgiveness for all mankind. It is a total mind twist to witness a civilian population that is under attack displaying such honorable and dignified behavior, even as they have been unfairly thrown into the most dehumanizing and desperate conditions.
DAY 13: GAZA EUROPEAN HOSPITAL
Today was a short day for me, and I finished my work around 5 PM. We created a makeshift soccer pitch, and we played soccer with the locally displaced Gazans in the encampment outside the hospital nursing dormitories. The children were so happy to receive their Liverpool soccer shirts, compliments of our British doctors. I am wearing a pair of bulky HOKAs, so I figure that’s why I missed two penalty kicks. Meanwhile, the Gazans are barefoot, but they can move their malnourished and maimed bodies surprisingly well. Most notable, though, were their bright smiles. Their faces are glowing with light, as if they just stepped out of a day spa. It was as if this beautiful game was able to draw everyone into a state of bliss, if just for a brief, priceless moment.
The community loved playing with us as much as they loved hosting us. You don’t find fair-weather or contractual friends here. These are authentic people who provide you with a real sense of community. And to be welcomed into the community, I didn’t need to go through any initiation process, like one would need to enter a gang or fraternity. I cannot help but get completely immersed in their warmth. I hesitate to mention that I do not often think of my own children while I am with the Gazans. It’s hard to explain, but once you get a sip of Gaza, you thirst for more. They fill that emptiness in our daily life that we often try to fill with television, fantasy football, or social media. They have a way of making moments of silence feel fulfilling. They are probably the best example of an educated, civilized, and humanitarian population that this world has. They are a society from whom there is so much to learn and apply so that we can find fulfillment in our daily lives. They are disciplined and gifted physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
When I was a freshman in high school, I won an award for “best overall student athlete.” I learned later from the headmaster of our school that he had received a lot of complaints from parents as to why I, a son of immigrants, was given that award instead of their children, legacy sons of parents and grandparents who supported the school for generations. I can see why people would be envious of the Gazans: you cannot purchase their gifts. I felt inadequate around them. How are they spiritual, smart, sharing, hospitable, humble, innovative, compassionate, courageous, confident, patient, forgiving, and disciplined? How are they able to create such a humane and just community in the most desperate and deprived circumstances? How do they continue to pray and have patience and faith despite all the misfortunes that have fallen upon them? How does a Gazan patient not, at the very least, develop acute kidney injury and sepsis when he was stuck under rubble with burns and crush injuries for a week without food or water? I did not hear them complain. Why can’t I be like the Gazans? How do I teach my kids to be like them? What do I have to do to excel like them in character, spirit, mental acumen, and physical ability?
I now realize that I completely misunderstood who the Gazans truly are. They are highly educated, independent, and hard-working. They are innovative, creative, and resourceful. They can maintain envious levels of community, decency, integrity, and honor while living in extreme poverty, famine, and destruction. And they somehow manage to live in constant fear but not get consumed with worry. They are an exemplary civilized society, a miracle that this world desperately needs to witness and model.
DAY 14: GAZA EUROPEAN HOSPITAL
A few months ago, I took a video of my nine-month-old son while he was crying. I videotaped him crying for about 20 seconds before I consoled him. I don’t know why I did it. Today, in the Gaza European Hospital intensive care unit, I treated a boy who looked to be about five years old. He was admitted with severe third-degree burns covering 70% of his body. He was in too much pain to cry and was just struggling to breathe, shuffling around in a vain attempt to find a position that wasn’t excruciatingly painful. We placed a central line in his groin and had to intubate him to treat him.
I was unable to treat his younger brother, who also arrived with third-degree burns all over his body. He was in the next bed crying inconsolably in pain. I didn’t know where his parents were. Perhaps they were dead. Perhaps they were looking for their children. I froze. I couldn’t move my body to treat this child. I had to step out of the room, and I pulled out my phone and watched that video of my son crying. Sometimes, I think it is easier to treat the babies that are in too much pain to cry.
Week 2 at Gaza European Hospital was May 6–11.
Continue reading at “Three Weeks at Gaza European Hospital: Week 3.”
