Last week, my son Khaled cut his finger and urgently needed stitches. I wrapped his small hand in a clean piece of cloth and carried him through the shattered streets of Gaza City. Our first stop was Al-Shifa Hospital.
The hospital was a scene of chaos and bloodbath.
The emergency room overflowed, bodies lay on mats in the hallways, some barely moving, some not moving at all…
… It took me two hours to reach the hospital, half the journey on foot and the rest by cart. The hospital gates were open, but the staff looked overwhelmed.
“No antibiotics. No anesthesia. Only thread to stitch the wound. I’m sorry, sister,” the nurse told me.
By then, the cloth wrapped around Khaled’s finger was soaked through. He rested his head on my shoulder as I glanced up at the sky, a thick plume of smoke rising in the distance after an Israeli attack.
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