My name is Raúl Incertis Jarillo, I am an emergency doctor and anesthetist, and from April to June this year I have been working as a volunteer in two hospitals of. I am not who to say whether or not in Gaza there is a one, but during my stay there I lost the account of the injured children who arrived alone to the hospital because his family had died in a bombing. I remember a six -year -old girl: I had to take her amputated and carbonized arm to separate him because she hindered us when trying to help her grab the thread of life she hung. I also remember that he wore a tank shirt with stamped sheep that we had to cut to explore it. He died and I don’t remember his name. Because, at that time – at the three weeks of my arrival in Gaza – I had already lost the account of mutilated, amputated, crushed or burned children to whom I had to attend with my classmates. And of the dead.
There is a black cloud in my head, made of open images, which prevents me from remembering. Many died in front of us, despite our efforts to cure them. Of those, of those who died in the course of medical care, I also lost the account. Just as from the trucks or carts lying by familic donkeys that entered the hospital with inside, on the way to the morgue, which did not stop receiving them. They entered and left, as in a factory where the operators enter and leave, but dead. Most of them maintained a fright rictus that reflected what had been their last emotion before being killed.
I cannot say what is not a genocide, but from a certain date we did not stop receiving daily, and even several times a day ,. They were people, like you or me, who were queuing to receive, and there the Israelis had shot them to kill with rifles, tank and grenades artillery thrown from mortars or drones. Forty, sixty, ninety wounded suddenly. One morning we receive more than two hundred. You stumbled with injured that lay on the ground, you stumbled and fell with them. Many were children and women. There were so many that you could not attend to everyone, and many died waiting for a help that never arrived.
In the midst of that dead chaos, mutilated bodies and hysterical relatives, at least I was clear who should first attend :. One of the smallest we attended, of a year and a half, was shot in the thorax in his mother’s arms. It came, like almost everyone, from one of the food distribution points, the distribution of help organized by the United States and Israel. They should change the name to that foundation. It is bad taste to call her like this.
It will be another one who has to say whether or not this is a genocide, but Dr. Alaa, a hospital pediatrician, amputated almost all his soul, leaving him less than a tenth. An Israeli bombing killed nine of her ten children and her husband while she was on duty at the hospital. I do not know where he could get the strength to, three days later and cover of mourning clothes, approach the doctors who had attended his only surviving son, Adam, to thank us. Of those, of the parents who had lost their children, I also lost the account, of the women and men that I saw on the ground in a catatonic state or throwing painful screams when they saw their newly dead son on a stretcher. To all my colleagues, without exception, they have been killed by relatives of first or second degree.
They are also killed. I have to suppress his memory, because, sometimes, the image of Ahmed, an instrumentalist nurse with whom I shared hours and hours in the operating room, who died of a bomb in his shack with his three young children comes to mind. No one took a smile like him. In spite of suffering as they all suffer, and wich as they all live, overcrowded in shacks as if they were intensive livestock, every time I saw me, my face of joy illuminated and my hand collided with enthusiasm, and then give myself with a compliment that made me feel better person. His wife, pregnant and health like him, was on duty at the hospital when the Israelis bombarded, by the way, their canvas store.
Every day, especially at night, we received entire families who had been bombarded in their shacks in the fields of displaced, in the “humanitarian zone” of, which is where the army had indicated to the population that came to not be attacked, and where they have now indicated that they go. They should change the name to that area. Many of my friends think that sarcasm is not necessary. They know that their future will never be so beautiful, or far, as the past they cannot evoke, because it is full of pain and absence. And his present is infernal. At least, don’t make fun of them.
Others should be the ones who say whether or not this is a genocide, but I toured Gaza from top to bottom and there is something that I know: you cannot live there.
