In the middle of the night, October 14, 2024, a devastating tragedy unfolded at Shuhdaa Alqsaa Hospital (Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital). Flames consumed everything in their path, leaving behind a scene of unimaginable horror. As I stood, cemented to the ground, bodies dissolved and burned before my eyes.

I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. The occupation had delivered another massive explosion on Gaza. The primary cause was an Israeli missile. However, there were also flammable materials present in the area, which intensified and spread the fire. Flames soared into the sky, mingled with the flesh of human beings who had sought refuge in this hospital after fleeing south from northern Gaza.

Moments before 

Moments before — with part of my soul still in the north, home, safe — I’d been sitting outside my brother’s tent on a street behind Shuhdaa Alqsaa Hospital, leaning against a wooden board to support my back. I was sitting in the dark, trying to catch an internet signal to complete my application to the University of Glasgow. I was fully aware I could lose my life at any time, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing my dreams — dreams of joining such a prestigious university to continue my humanitarian and educational journey, so I can help my community rise again psychologically and offer hope amid the destruction.

Moments before, I was simply trying to survive, living in my imagination.

A prickling on my neck startled me. I felt something was coming — but how could I know that something would make me stand, frozen, like a block of ice … while internal heat melted me with pain and agony?

A scream pierced the quiet, and darkness filled my heart. I felt like something was burning in the sky. I did not physically feel it; rather, I had a deep, unsettling sensation. It was more like an instinct, a gut feeling that something terrible was happening.

I didn’t actually see sparks or feel any heat; it was an overwhelming sense of dread. It felt like the atmosphere around me was heavy, as if the air itself carried the weight of destruction.

It wasn’t a physical sensation but an emotional and psychological one — like a premonition that something was terribly wrong.

I had this premonition because it’s not the first time such massacres have happened in Gaza. These scenes have repeated themselves, and now, even without seeing, we know the full picture.

‘Farida, are you all okay?’

My father’s number buzzed in my hand, frantic. He was calling me from the besieged area of northern Gaza, in an area called Sheikh Radwan, where he is staying along with three of my brothers — Jihad, Youssef, and Hosni — and my sister, Diana. They remain trapped, without water or food or any basic necessities of life. I became separated from them because I fled with my younger brother and his children, displaced by hunger and bombardment, to care for and support them.

“Farida, are you all okay?”

“What happened, Dad? How are you?”

“The tanks are very close, my daughter, and we don’t know if we will survive or not. But let your heart be reassured. Stay safe.”

And the line died.

Scrolling through my phone, I saw message after message telling me of the massacre sweeping through Shuhdaa Alqsaa Hospital in Deir Al-Balah, central Gaza Strip, where I was. Palestinians, displaced to the hospital, had endured a bloody night of Israeli airstrikes. Videos shared by activists documented harrowing scenes of the moments after the bombing.

Anadolu Agency reported medics had confirmed the martyrdom of four people, including a woman and a child, and around 40 injured. The bodies of the martyrs were completely burned, and most of the injured suffered second- and third-degree burns.

I thought of my father and my family, the anxiety and panic gripping me. Were they safe? All I wished for was to hear from them, to see them. There were moments when I felt hope fading, but I held on to the belief that they were safe. When my phone beeped their message, telling me they were safe, it was a ray of light in the darkness.

Echoes of despair

I rushed to the hospital to do what I could and got as far as the street across from where the fire was burning. Echoes of despair filled the air, especially one woman’s haunting cries, lamenting over and over, ‘They burned alive. They burned alive. They burned alive.’

As I stood in the chaos, I was overwhelmed by deep sorrow for those who had come to the hospital seeking help, only to find themselves trapped in an inferno.

How is it possible that they should be displaced a hundred times, only to meet their end in this horrific manner?

I had gone to the hospital, hoping to offer some solace, but my nerves were frayed. The bodies of Gazans were burning, alive. I saw them burning. I couldn’t breathe. My mind flew out of control.

Surrounded by flames, with the acrid smell of charred flesh lingering in the air, I retreated to my tattered tent, the horror of what transpired etched in my memory for eternity.

Since that time, I have felt that my body is burning, that I am not okay. I feel like there is no breath, like I am suffocating, but I am still trying to live because my family needs me.

The martyr Sha’ban

Deir al-Balah is a small city, and any targeting or massacre affects the entire city. Everyone feels the impact.

Right now, everyone is affected by this latest atrocity that occurred, because the hospital serves as the main center for the wounded, the displaced, and the press.

One of our dead is Shaban Al-Dalou. He was 19, just a few years younger than me. He had dreams of continuing his education at a university abroad, just like I do. A favorite pastime of his was playing guitar; mine is reading novels.

Our tents were just a few hundred meters apart.

I could easily have been him.

How can we allow this to continue?

This was not an “explosion.” This was the mission of the Israeli occupation.

As we mourn those lost and support the survivors, let us not forget the urgency of our collective responsibility. We must advocate for peace, justice, and the dignity of every human being, regardless of their circumstances. It is only through our actions and our voices that we can hope to prevent such tragedies from happening again.

The suffering at Shuhdaa Alqsaa Hospital is emblematic of a larger tragedy unfolding in Gaza. As families are torn apart and lives are lost, we must ask ourselves: How can we allow this to continue? How many more lives must be sacrificed before the world takes notice? The time has come for us to stand in solidarity, to raise our voices against such atrocities, and to demand accountability for those who perpetrate violence against innocent civilians.

In this moment of grief and despair, let us unite to honor the memory of those who perished in the flames and to work tirelessly towards a future where no one has to experience such horror again.

Postponing our pens is not an option.