With no electricity and lighting in Al-Shifa Hospital, Dr. Ali S. A. Alghaliz uses the flashlight on his phone as he treats a child. Photo: Dr. Ali S. A. Alghaliz

In the middle of June, I began to feel intense, sharp pain in my stomach—so severe it felt as though my insides were being torn apart. My fever spiked to 39°C (more than 102°F) and I could no longer stand on my feet. Seeing my condition, my father asked my mother to help prepare me to go to the hospital while he went out to find a car.

My mother brought me my clothes. In a broken voice, I told her, “Mama, I can’t stand up,” and I began to cry. Gently, she helped me up, and together we made our way to my father. I had to walk for 10 minutes just to reach the car he had borrowed.

As we got into the vehicle, my mother asked, “Should we go to Al-Shifa Hospital or somewhere else?” My father replied, “Al-Shifa will be overwhelmed with wounded and martyrs, and the scene might be too much for Zeina to bear.”

I whispered, “I don’t want to see blood. I won’t be able to handle it.”

My mother then suggested, “What about Al-Kuwaiti Hospital?” My father nodded, “Yes, it’s likely to have fewer casualties than Al-Shifa.”

A field of tents

I had imagined that the hospital would be a safe, clean place. But when we arrived, I found myself in a field of tents—each tent serving as a makeshift ward, an emergency room, an operating theater, or a lab. Doctors, nurses, and wounded patients filled every corner. People were lined up in long queues, and there weren’t enough chairs for everyone.

As the pain in my stomach intensified, my mother called out to a doctor nearby, asking if she could bring me a chair. The doctor shook her head, “There are no chairs left.”

A woman in her thirties sitting next to her sick daughter saw us. With a kind voice, she said, “Come, my dear, sit in my chair.” I nodded in gratitude and sat down.

Fifteen minutes later, the hospital was flooded with wounded and martyrs brought in from Jabalia. Their faces were smeared with blood and dust, their clothes soiled with dirt and rubble. I saw a man of around 50 years old, his face covered in blood, and fear and agony etched into his expression. His head was severely injured; he held it with trembling hands, trying to stop the bleeding while screaming, “My children! Where are my children?”

Soon, the ambulance brought in more of his family. They were also wounded. Among them was a 5-year-old child, unrecognizable due to severe burns, and unconscious. When the man saw the child, he cried out in pain, “That’s my grandson … the one I loved the most.”

He broke down in uncontrollable sobs.

I found myself drifting deep into thought, overwhelmed by this family’s suffering. I forgot my own pain. A tear escaped my eye, falling silently down my cheek.

‘You need to drink more water’

The nurse called my name. She asked me about my symptoms, and I explained the severe stomach and kidney pain I had been experiencing. She asked me to undergo blood tests and electrolyte evaluations.

The results showed my hemoglobin level was dangerously low—just 9. She advised me to improve my diet to strengthen my blood. I gave her a faint smile and explained, “Just days before the war began, my hemoglobin was 12. I’ve felt it drop as the days passed. I didn’t evacuate to the south; I stayed in the north of Gaza.”

She nodded sympathetically, “You’re not alone. Everyone who remained in the north has suffered from malnutrition and blood deficiencies.”

I said, “In sha’Allah, this war will end, the borders will open, and food—vegetables, meat, fish—will come in. Then our health will improve.”

She then asked me to test for kidney issues due to the pain I described. I walked to the lab, a tent a few meters away from the medical tent.

On the way, I saw that same man again. He was still sitting, still holding his wounded head, his face drenched in sorrow and tears.

When I returned to the doctor with my test results, she informed me my electrolyte levels were extremely high. “How much water do you drink a day?” she asked. “Half a liter,” I replied. She was shocked, “That’s not nearly enough. You need to drink more water.”

I told her, “The water we have is contaminated. It’s not properly filtered. When I drink it, I get stomach infections and my pain worsens. I lived in Al-Shifa for two months—there was no water at all in the area. If I got one cup every two or three days, I felt like I’d achieved something great. That’s when my kidney pain began. I ended up spending a full day in the reception area with IV fluids.”

The doctor sighed deeply, “The water we have now is toxic. It’s contaminated. It causes diseases, even cancer—but unfortunately, there’s no other option.”

She told me to come back the next day to check in and collect my medicine from the pharmacy.

When I returned, I saw a man carrying a large bag full of canned food on his back. He was shouting, “I went to the south to get food for my family … and when I came back, I found them dead and injured.”

He was visibly exhausted and afraid, yet he clung tightly to that bag of food like it was a treasure. He found his children and wife—alive after all, but wounded. He  sat down on the ground, gently placed the bag beside him, and began to speak to the cans as if they were his closest friends: “They’ll get better … and we’ll eat these together, just like I promised.”

I left the hospital carrying an indescribable heaviness within me. I was no longer the same; the scenes of suffering and pain left a deep mark on my soul that won’t fade.