In the weeks following the attack on his life, Mohammad began planning another trip north to attend the burial of his friends who had been killed. Sara continued to worry about him: “He has broken ribs and other deep injuries in his leg, and the stitches are still new. He is carrying out all these tasks, suffering all this pain, enduring all the stress of knowing he is being targeted by the most evil enemies in the world and is still keeping his calm and strength.”
“I know he is a mountain in the shape of a man, but still, in my heart, I wish he didn’t have to face and endure all this,” she said. “No one should.”
The next emergency arrived before the previous one had ended, with Israeli attacks on Al Bureij landing close to their shelter. The strikes damaged windows and shrapnel entered the small surgery room, destroying an electrosurgical unit and surgical suction machine. These machines had allowed Sara and her team to treat wounds and nurse the sick back to health. Without them, each injury became more dangerous.
Afterward, Mohammad said he would find a way to replace what had been destroyed. His ribs were still broken and the stitches in his leg were still fresh. The machines, however, were vital, and the center needed supplies. Soon after, he embarked on his journey north. Even there, among the dust, grief and hurried rites of farewell, he continued coordinating what the camp needed: food, baby formula, water purification tablets, medicines, women’s hygiene products, pumps, spare parts and medical equipment.
For Sara, every absence became another ordeal of waiting. Communication was uncertain. She knew he was wounded, knew he was being targeted and knew that he would not stop simply because his body required rest. She imagined him standing in the north with broken ribs, offering condolences, reciting prayers and turning again toward the needs of the living.
By the time word came that he was safe, anxiety had entered her body. Her eldest sister came to the shelter to bring her home because the stress had affected her heartbeat and blood pressure. Sara tried to remain calm, understanding that everyone feared for Mohammad as well. But for her, he was not only her brother. He was, she wrote, “my teacher, my best friend, my support,” and “the kindest heart and the noblest soul I’ll ever know.”
After Mohammad returned from the north, he set to work again. Wells still had to be dug. Food had to be found. Lives had to be saved.
Soon after Mohammad’s return, Sara herself collapsed from exhaustion and strain. Mohammad nursed her back to health, even while he still needed medical care himself. Their roles had reversed, but the logic was the same: In Gaza, the wounded care for the critically wounded; the exhausted carry those who can no longer stand.
Mohammad’s broken ribs are slowly healing, but rest remains out of reach. He continues to work through pain so that children he has never met might have milk and a place to sleep. Sara knows that none of this should be normal. Yet genocide is anything but normal. As a doctor, she knows that Mohammad should be lying still. As his sister, she knows why he cannot.
The orphans and mothers of Abu Asi were allowed to return, but many returned to tents erased from the earth. Mohammad survived the attack on his vehicle, and the work he risked his life to sustain continues. But the camp he helped to evacuate has been torn open. Thousands of people were made homeless by an order delivered through Israeli leaflets that rained down on Al Bureij in the first week of June. Yet these events fell beneath the radar of both English and Arabic media, which have yet to tell the story of this displacement.
It has been left to health care workers such as Sara and Mohammad to make these tragedies known to the world.
The views and positions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of DAWN.