Another unbearable shift

Another unbearable shift.

This morning, my beloved aunt's husband, Dr. Assad Jouda, died from bleeding in his brain. Dr. Assad had already lost his son Mohammed, his brother Dr. Saeed Jouda, and his nephew Majd, the son of Dr. Saeed, all martyrs, in this ongoing onslaught.

Just minutes before seeing him dead, four patients arrived in the ER at the same moment, their lungs drowning, their breath stolen. They surrounded Dr. Assad's bed while he was still in coma.

Irushed out, searching desperately for space, for an oxygen source, but there was nothing. Patients were everywhere: on beds, on the floor between beds, on the floor in every corner. I had no oxygen for them, no beds to lay them on.

At that same moment, a boy was carried in, shot. When I asked what happened, he said he was hit by an American sniper at a Natsremm aid point. His buttocks were blown apart. He said he walked for so long to look for someone to save him. He told me many others, men and boys were also shot, unable to walk, unable to be saved.

Another patient sat in confusion and exhaustion, too weak even to stand, waiting in a chair for someone to fix him.

Another man was brought in, shot in both thighs and in his arm at the very same moment.

I was able to check on my cousin Salah twice; once in the morning, when he was in pain, and later, when he was asleep. He is suffering from severe pain after a major operation; something that could have been avoided, and should never have been allowed to happen.

I saw them all in the same day, I saw their agony. AndI could do so little.

Dr. Assad was a good, good man. And everyone suffering here is the same; good people, deeply loved by their families.

The world is choking us, letting us die slowly, painfully, mercilessly.

I feel like l'm already dead, alive, but not living. This pain is unbearable. Our pain will never die, except if we do.

We are not treated as humans. We are ghosts, but ghosts who still feel everything. Heartbreak after a heartbreak, I no longer can understand how this continues to happen.

What keeps my exhausted body moving is the thought of what I've done to help, and what more I can still do. Yet it is unbearably tiring. Watching patients sink deeper into agony shatters my soul; but even shattered, my soul keeps giving everything it has.