This is my niece, Ciela, today, so beautiful and sweet, and full of life. And with her, in the third video, is her cousin, poor innocent Nedal, who has been waiting for months for an urgent medical evacuation. l am at the hospital, and It's been more than a week since the so-called end of the war, yet we still can't find medications for our sick patients. We still receive people shot in the head; by the IOF.

Winter is the season I love the most, but I couldn't enjoy the rain for three years.

Today was meaningful, and beautiful; a warm day, for more than 240 children.

Walk in the darkness. Close your eyes. Don't open them until you hit something, or something hits you; try it, and see how it feels. That's how I feel, while my eyes are wide open; only thousand times worse. After coincidentally surviving a genocide, I should be living freely now. My family should never have to fear going through another round of genocide again.

Very low, very disturbing night drones; the echoes of genocide, are my nightmares. This is not a genocide, it's a videogame, and we are not humans, we are shields. What we're feeling is unbearable: the pain, the fatigue, the discomfort, the depression, the anxiety, the despair; every dark emotion, every depth of exhaustion.

Saleh, and so many others, are survivors of genocide; but victims of dehumanization. Israel keeps killing, day after day, still torturing us with darkness and fear. May he be the last martyr. Glory to all martyrs, peace to the survivors, and justice for all.

I'm home from my first shift after the ceasefire. I am grateful; yet mortified, and angry.

If l was asked to name heroes I have worked with and affected by in this long, endless, deadly battle, while fighting death and diseases, I would put Youssef at the top of the list!

Have I just survived the worst, endless, motherfucking genocide?

I am worth the world. My friends and colleagues are worth the world too.

I am at the hospital, surviving another busy long shift, feeling like dead.

It's already the seventh of October; two hellish years of this damned genocide, and we are still here, somehow, still smiling.

I was at the beach with my friend Aboud, who brought me one of his jackets to wear. We were waiting there for the Sumod flottila, until the occupation arrived, terrifying everyone, stealing baby formula, and continuing to kill, starve, and deepen the children's suffering.

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.

If we all had been killed, it would have been better than this. It would have been more merciful than this.

I wish I died before all this. I wish I never lived, to witness these endless horrors.

Share this. Add me if you haven't yet. Hear me; because l am risking my life, my soul, everything, just to make the world see what's happening.

I am not a hero. I am terrified, terrorized; as sit on my couch, watching a drone gets closer to my house.

I feel unbearably helpless before my dying patients. Countless times, I' ve failed to piece together the shattered bodies of children.

Today, we've already seen nearly 500 patients; some sick, others wounded.

It was mental torture.

I couldn't focus on everyone, though I tried my best not to let anyone die. But every time I tried, it felt impossible.

I scanned two children at the same time; both had internal abdominal bleeding.

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.

Am I even important on this earth?

My memory is fading, slowly, endlessly. I can't remember what happened a second ago, or even a minute ago. I forget my patients; the ones who were just in front of me. The moment they leave, they vanish from my mind.

I am a Gazan doctor, and I have seen everything. I have witnessed it all with my own eyes. I am not a hero, but those I treated and healed from their wounds, they are the true heroes.

I live in constant, deep pain. Yet I am not even suffering from a painful condition. So what about those who are?

If someone had described to me something like what I lived through today, and told me it was real, I would never have believed them.

In the last hours of my 24-hour shift in the ER, as I sat writing down the patients' stories I witnessed today, on what is nearly the thousandth day of this endless genocide, the crimes continued.

I am recognized tonight. How joyful life is now! if recognition could actually keep me alive

Thank you for the recognitíon. Thank you for the solidarity, and for truly feeling with us.