The children of Gaza are suffering overwhelming trauma

On October 30, a lone child, about 7 years old, from northern Gaza arrived by ambulance at the emergency room of al-Shifa hospital where I worked as a nurse. She needed emergency brain surgery after her home was bombed by Israeli forces, killing most of her family. She was rushed into the operating room and after several hours, she was sent back to the ER because there was no room in the recovery area. I was the nurse responsible for her care.

After a while, the child woke up. The surgery had gone well, but he soon recognized that he was in the hospital. She began to cry and asked about her mother repeatedly. I didn't know how to answer. we had no details about the rest of her family. I tried to calm her down and soften her tears. I racked my brains for a way to distract her from the intense longing for her missing mother.

So I brought her a box of chocolate milk that I had kept in my hospital cupboard during the first days of the war. I brought in my colleague Hadeel to play the role of her mother. Hadeel and I sat with the little girl and gave her the milk to drink. He immediately calmed down a bit. I felt proud that I was able to bring her some relief. When it was time for Hadeel to leave, she held the little girl's hand and told her everything was okay.

This calm was short-lived, of course. The effect of the painkiller had worn off. Fortunately, her treatment appointment was soon, so I could give her enough medication to get her through it.

As dawn approached, the girl finally began to feel drowsy. I prayed she would sleep, hoping to quiet the noise inside her mind. I was sure that her worst pain was not physical but psychological. I tried to imagine what she endured under the rubble of her home. Did he scream? Did she call her mother? Or passed out? How could this small body withstand the weight of collapsing floors and rocket fire? I wanted to believe that one day, the traumatic memories of this genocidal conflict would fade and she would go on with her life as normal. But I struggled to imagine any world where a child recovers from this trauma. And there are so many children like her – many in much worse situations. Since the start of the Gaza invasion, most of the bombing victims I have cared for in the hospital have been children. I have seen so many innocents disintegrated during my training as an ER nurse at Al Shifa Hospital. How can a child endure the emotional and physical pain, let alone make sense of this war? Children from infancy see their parents die in front of them, and sometimes their entire family, leaving them alone, orphans. In addition, so many of them are suffering from their own serious injuries. Amputations of hands and feet have become commonplace. How will they go on with their lives after this?

On November 13, when Al-Shifa Hospital was forced out of service by incoming Israeli troops, another child, perhaps 5 years old, was there with his mother. I was shocked when I changed her bandages. Her left hand and some fingers on her right hand were amputated, along with several toes on her left foot. No pain medication was available, yet he showed no reaction. I wondered why. maybe he was still in shock.

These children are forced to mature way before their time. They carry on their shoulders the weight of many years, although they have lived but little. From past experience, I knew they would feel a constant fear that this war would never end.

Later, when I was evacuated to a camp in Rafah, I saw that the lives of many children were beginning to resemble those of adults. They have to look for work to earn some money to buy food. They line up at food distribution points for hours, just for a little rice or a small number of lentils. Now even these meager offerings are rare. They are forced to live in a tent and environment that does not have the minimum necessities. The air is filled with the smell of body odor, human waste and garbage. I noticed that most of them suffer from night terrors or talk to themselves during the day. Their conversations are dominated by war and bombing, telling stories of how they escaped from painful situations. Even their games imitate war. And many suffer from the annoying problem of involuntary urination. All are the result of accumulated trauma.

As for me, their caregiver, it has turned me from someone who tries to be a resilient stoic to someone in a shocked daze, constantly lost in thought, plagued by insomnia at night and melancholy by day. I feel desensitized and numb. I remain in my tent for long periods of time, pondering the future: What will happen after the scenes? Will this war ever end or will we all perish? All I know for sure is that the pain and suffering of these children is beyond words and their wounds may never heal.