Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed on Jan. 9, 2025. Photo provided by Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed

I once had a future I planned for and a passion for ophthalmology that burned. Everyone saw me as a future doctor and supported me, because they knew how determined and hardworking I was.

One quiet evening I was preparing my white coat for the next day’s shift at Al-Nasr Eye Hospital, in the Al-Nasr district of Gaza City. My biggest concern was making sure it was properly ironed. I was getting ready for another long day among children and patients. How simple life was!

The author performing surgery at Al-Razi Medical Center in al-Nuseirat, on April 17, 2025. Photo provided by Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed

The next morning, Oct. 8, 2023, I didn’t wake up to the sound of my alarm, but to missiles and strange, terrifying noises. While browsing the internet, I came across images of my university, bombed and in ruins. These were the halls I had been preparing to graduate from after five exhausting years of study.

In a single moment, everything was gone. No graduation ceremony. No closure. Just silence and dust. I fell into panic and depression. But in Gaza, you either endure or die of sorrow.

Two months later, my home was bombed, along with my father’s goldsmith workshop. All my books and belongings—including my white coat—were buried under the rubble. Even my desk, where I would review patient cases before hospital rounds, was destroyed.

We moved to the displacement camps, which they told us were “safe zones.” But there I found dust, smoke, bombing, and the scent of death.

I also began to notice that many people around me, including my siblings, my parents and other displaced families, were suffering from eye infections. Even I started to experience the symptoms.

Whenever someone felt pain in their eyes, they came running to me with their questions, clearly worried. Each time, I could see their trust in me, even though my experience was still limited. Their faith in me gave me strength.

Months passed, and we lost loved ones, friends, colleagues, doctors. One night, our second home was bombed while we were inside. By a miracle, my siblings and I survived, but I lost many family members. That day haunts me.

My father told me: “Life must go on. Go back. Volunteer. Help others. Maybe it will ease your pain.”

So I did.

In December 2024 I started volunteering at Al-Razi Medical Center in Al-Nuseirat under the supervision of a remarkable doctor. I was nervous and uncertain because I hadn’t practiced for over a year. But he looked at me and said, “You’re smart, quick-thinking. You have something many others don’t.” That gave me hope. I started walking to the center every day under the threat of bombardment.

The street I walked was bombed several times, yet I survived. Maybe God had a purpose for me to help others.

Soon, the number of eye injuries and infections skyrocketed. The doctor and I performed countless procedures. The operating room became the alternative to my university labs that had been destroyed.

Some cases broke my heart.

A 7-year-old boy who lost his arm and eye due to an Israeli airstrike and exposure to incendiary materials. He didn’t cry. He was in shock, his body frozen.

A man in his 20s who arrived covered in blood after a nearby bombing. He kept repeating: “I can’t see, doctor. Why can’t I see? Please help me.” His optic nerve had been destroyed.

A 24-year-old woman, my former schoolmate, who was injured when her neighbor’s house was shelled and a wall collapsed on her. She suffered fractures in her facial bones, including the orbital bones, leading to a downward deviation of one eye. She looked at me with sadness clouding her face.

A newborn baby girl who had congenital retinoblastoma (cancer) in her right eye. It needed to be removed before spreading to the other eye or the brain, but with the border closures and equipment shortages, we couldn’t operate. Seven months later, I was told she passed away.

A 4-year-old girl who had lost her eyesight due to severe corneal burns from a nearby explosion. She screamed in pain, her tiny voice piercing the air. She underwent the surgical removal of one eye to prepare for a prosthetic implant, despite the shortage of supplies.

A man in his late 30s who came in with shrapnel injuries and skull fractures. He had a lacerated upper eyelid and a deep corneal wound. He required a delicate operation and repeated general anesthesia, which was impossible in our conditions.

The author’s hands covered in debris, cleaning the rubble and looking for any belongings in her family’s apartment on June 13, 2024, after it was completely bombed while they were inside. Photo: Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed

One day, during surgery, I collapsed. I felt dizzy, breathless. Malnutrition, exhaustion, and psychological strain took their toll. But that same day, I returned to the clinic. There were still patients waiting for me.

In the rare quiet moments, we didn’t just talk medicine. We spoke of grief, of destroyed homes, of missing loved ones, of dreams delayed. Whenever I heard nearby shelling, I instinctively reached for my phone. In one hand, I held it to check the news, terrified of seeing my family’s names. In the other, I continued treating patients. It felt like I was constantly torn between doing my job and the fear of losing my family.

In January 2025 after a truce was announced, work resumed at the European Hospital under university supervision. I went only four times. Each time, I was afraid. Would I be bombed? Would I return home to find no one left? The road was eerie, and the ruins of war were everywhere.

My mind told me the war was over, but my heart knew better. And a few days later it began again. Work was suspended indefinitely. Still, I didn’t stop. I returned on my own to the ophthalmology clinic at Yafa Hospital in Deir Al-Balah, under the guidance of skilled doctors.

I did this because people need care. So I am still here, serving patients under bombardment, hunger and fear. Fighting for my dream to become who I always wanted to be. Moving between clinics, treating the wounded, listening to stories, and (sometimes) literally restoring light into people’s lives. I haven’t forgotten my goal. My spirit hasn’t broken. I still believe I am a tool God placed here to help. And I will keep going.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.