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(10:17 pm
5th of August 2014) almost 20 hours after her first.
We woke up today to the sound of thundering, followed by the sound of an F16 fighter jet. I jumped out of bed hoping the ceasefire hopes we went to bed with were not shattered. I looked at my watch and saw it was seven thirty in the morning. I realized that this must be the usual cycle (as people say) before the ceasefire was in effect at eight. I was relieved, I felt the buzzing sound outside sounded different. My colleague, Dr. Dina, with whom I share a name and a room, laughed. She thought the buzz had never stopped, so how could it be different? In fact it was outside. The small selling stalls on the floor selling flip flops, underwear, t-shirts, shorts…
The mats and cardboards were gone from the balcony, yet the makeshift tents were there. People were arguing, discussing going home or waiting. To go check their homes, or to wait. Like every morning on the walk to the hospital passing the morgue we encounter death, today another martyr in another ambulance. We walked past a young man crying and pulling at his hair and a woman in the car in tears.
I reach the operating room as I do each morning and there was a happy atmosphere. No casualties today, nothing to do this morning. I did not even feel like holding my chlorine based wipe and going around with it. I decided to visit Haneen.
Dr. Haytham, my colleague and I went in. How are you? We asked. Ok she said, her head tilted to the side. What happened to my sister? I do not know, I said, but I will ask. What happened to my father? We saw him in the emergency room, he is ok, perhaps he is in the hospital or he has been sent home, I answered. What home? I bit my tongue. There is no more home. I said perhaps to someone’s home from the family. But I promised we will ask. Finally she asked about her mother. I had no idea…Tell me what happened to them. I promised again I would ask. She asked me once more about my daughter. How is she? She is well, I said.
Again, she asked about her sisters.
I went to the operating room and asked to find out. The nurses helped find a relative who came a few hours later. He had tears in his eyes. Haneen’s mother had passed away, her two sisters, her uncle and her cousin from another uncle. That was the baby that had come in that morning with her…
This afternoon, my colleagues fromGaza
I have still not made it to the Shejaieye proper, there it is total annihilation…
We are not the heroes. It is theGaza
We woke up today to the sound of thundering, followed by the sound of an F16 fighter jet. I jumped out of bed hoping the ceasefire hopes we went to bed with were not shattered. I looked at my watch and saw it was seven thirty in the morning. I realized that this must be the usual cycle (as people say) before the ceasefire was in effect at eight. I was relieved, I felt the buzzing sound outside sounded different. My colleague, Dr. Dina, with whom I share a name and a room, laughed. She thought the buzz had never stopped, so how could it be different? In fact it was outside. The small selling stalls on the floor selling flip flops, underwear, t-shirts, shorts…
The mats and cardboards were gone from the balcony, yet the makeshift tents were there. People were arguing, discussing going home or waiting. To go check their homes, or to wait. Like every morning on the walk to the hospital passing the morgue we encounter death, today another martyr in another ambulance. We walked past a young man crying and pulling at his hair and a woman in the car in tears.
I reach the operating room as I do each morning and there was a happy atmosphere. No casualties today, nothing to do this morning. I did not even feel like holding my chlorine based wipe and going around with it. I decided to visit Haneen.
Dr. Haytham, my colleague and I went in. How are you? We asked. Ok she said, her head tilted to the side. What happened to my sister? I do not know, I said, but I will ask. What happened to my father? We saw him in the emergency room, he is ok, perhaps he is in the hospital or he has been sent home, I answered. What home? I bit my tongue. There is no more home. I said perhaps to someone’s home from the family. But I promised we will ask. Finally she asked about her mother. I had no idea…Tell me what happened to them. I promised again I would ask. She asked me once more about my daughter. How is she? She is well, I said.
Again, she asked about her sisters.
I went to the operating room and asked to find out. The nurses helped find a relative who came a few hours later. He had tears in his eyes. Haneen’s mother had passed away, her two sisters, her uncle and her cousin from another uncle. That was the baby that had come in that morning with her…
This afternoon, my colleagues from
I have still not made it to the Shejaieye proper, there it is total annihilation…
We are not the heroes. It is the
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