This was the worst day of the genocide
This is worse than hell. And here I am, after two years of living through a genocide, still writing to the world about how deadly its silence is; and how painful our death has been.
Update: I'm home. I walked back through the same street that was targeted yesterday.
Mum told me it was beyond awful. She said she knew every single one of the martyrs from the strike at the market; she used to buy food from them. She's heartbroken for our neighbor Ahmad and his family.
I told her my scrub needs a deep wash this time; it was soaked with every kind of secretion, even amniotic fluid. Just ten minutes before the wounded from the market arrived, a woman came in with labor pains. I kept running between rooms, searching for a space where she could deliver. In the end, I had to move a patient from an ICU bed, place her there, and help her through it. We had nothing; not even a towel to dry her baby with. But her delivery was smooth. Both mother and baby are well. Her husband told me he's naming their son Ali.
The moment they left, the hospital was flooded with the wounded, from the market attack.
Today' s shift cannot be written down ; not even in a hundred years could words capture how horrific it was; not even in the worst imagination of any human being. So, I'll only write this: This Was The Worst Day 0f The Genocide. I nearly died of heart break for everyone around me.
I stood before three men, crying, after I confirmed the death of their niece; a two-year -old boy, just minutes after watching him gasp his last breath from a severe head injury caused by shrapnel.
Another child, Aya, five years old, came from another strike with a skull fracture. As I scanned her abdomen on the ground, she shivered from the cold. I had no choice but to place her on the same bed as a stranger, a severely wounded, unconscious man. Minutes later, I confirmed the death of an elderly woman, ten minutes after her relatives realized on their own that she had stopped breathing.
Most of today's injuries were my neighbors. One of them was Ahmad, my age, who had been walking in the market when they fired a missile into the crowded area. Now, Ahmad lies on the ground with a devastating brain injury. And I can do nothing for him.
I couldn 't find anything to help my patients; not even oxygen. Too many of them died. Some because their injuries or illnesses were too severe , and others simply be cause the basic things that could have saved them weren't available. My colleagues, and I can recall many patients who could have been easily saved, if only they had been anywhere else.
In the midst of the chaos , one of the foreign doctors working with us today asked me, Should I feel more sorry for the north, or for the south'. The doctor tried desperately to save as many patients as possible, but she struggled even to get the simplest things done.
And here I am, after two years of living through a genocide, still writing to the world about how deadly its silence is; and how painful our death has been.
If this is allowed to happen to us, it can happen to anyone, anywhere. They are taking over the world, killing our children because they fear them; and because they fear nothing from the world. To them, we are "human animals. And they see those who stand with us, those who are upset for us, the same way. They are evil; them, and the US. Both are terrorists . And the leading world that can make a change, remains silent, as if our blood is water, as if our pain is nothing. This is worse than hell.
