More than a month has passed since a ceasefire was established in the Gaza Strip. Of course, that doesn’t mean the killing of Palestinians has stopped. It simply means that international media has diminished to negligible proportions.
And the world has come a long way since the story. But I’m not.
In July 2024, I participated in a medical mission to Gaza and spent 22 days there volunteering at a hospital. What I came back with is something that cannot be easily explained.
The man my family knew, the son we laughed with, the brother, the husband, the father we played with with our children, now feels we have lost our family.
I call him “Previous Talal.”
My children, wife, siblings, parents, friends, and colleagues have all seen the changes. They say I have become distant, quiet, isolated and sometimes difficult to reach. My emotions are messy and raw and often difficult to express in words. It is not a single emotion, but a cluster of emotions that persist despite news of a “ceasefire” and reassurances of “reconstruction.”
After witnessing an unspeakable human tragedy, I still feel a surge of anger at the injustice, a sense of guilt for leaving vulnerable people behind, and a constant feeling of helplessness to do nothing to stop this continued extinction.
I still feel uneasy when I see a sumptuous buffet of food on the table in front of me, knowing that people continue to go hungry in Gaza.
The faces and sights I witnessed keep playing in my head like a never-ending movie. Starving and skeletal children, parents clinging to body parts of their beloved children, completely charred humans, cozy blankets used to cover human body parts, bombed-out hospitals, flat buildings that reek of rotting bodies buried in rubble.
I still struggle with the choices I had to make, such as which patients to treat because we didn’t have enough dialysis machines, and how to explain to my children why their parents wouldn’t wake up.
Gaza transformed me from a nephrologist to a journalist, storyteller, and humanitarian. Since returning, I have written articles, spoken at mosques and universities, led speakers at fundraisers, marched in marches, met with members of Congress, and advocated for the oppressed people of Gaza in every way I could. Like other colleagues on medical missions to the Gaza Strip, I have sought to translate testimony into action so that Gaza is not forgotten.
I tried to go back several times. Each time, Israel refused me entry. Every time I denied it, the pain in my heart got worse.
I feel that there is an unbearable distance between what I can do here and what is required there. I always ask myself, “Am I doing enough? Did I fail?”
Is this sadness? trauma? Is it a conscience that rejects peace? I don’t know the appropriate label, and labeling doesn’t ease the burden.
What I do know is that Gaza has irreversibly changed me, and to pretend otherwise would be a betrayal of what I have seen and the people I have met.
The old Talal is lost, but this new Talal is more humane, kinder, more compassionate, more realistic, more courageous, and driven by the resilience and faith of the people of Gaza.
No amount of medical training could prepare me for maintaining the “balance between life and carnage.”
Still, the despair and pain I feel now is only a fraction of what Palestinians have endured, day in and day out, for more than two years. They experienced unimaginable horrors, torture, starvation, injury and death.
If you read my story, please remember, not for pity, but that the genocide in Gaza is not over and the besieged people of Gaza are still suffering. Behind every statistic in Gaza is human soul, ambition, hope and dignity.
The ceasefire is a temporary relief from heavy artillery bombardment. True peace will only come when the occupation ends and justice is served.
While we share our feelings and experiences in Gaza, we are also saddened by what is happening in Sudan. It feels like watching a tragic reenactment of suffering and loss and human misery livestreamed every day.
What bothers me even more is that the world seems to have gotten used to it so easily. This realization is distressing. Although human civilization has achieved much in terms of progress and development, it seems that we have gone backwards in terms of compassion and humanity.
I write these words to call people to action.
To my fellow medical workers and humanitarian workers who have volunteered in Gaza, I say this: We cannot allow the world to turn its back on us. We must never stop talking about what we witnessed in Gaza and what continues to happen. We must continue to inform, mobilize and advocate for full humanitarian and medical access to Gaza.
I say to my fellow Americans that we are responsible for what is happening in Gaza. Our country is directly involved in it and our taxes fund it. Don’t stay silent because of threats. Talk, write, post, and discuss it in the community. Call your congressman. We must not normalize mass shelling, torture, and starvation of other peoples.
And to all the people around the world who still believe in the possibility of a free and just world, I say this. We are responsible for making sure that happens. We witnessed one of the greatest moral tests of our time: a livestreamed genocide. So don’t fall into silence. rise. Refuse to let a temporary ceasefire in Gaza or a long war in Sudan serve as a veil over the reality of genocide. Please continue to advocate for an end to violence for the dignity of every human life.
Let us be a force for healing, rebuilding and restoring memory in Gaza and Sudan, so that ‘never again’ becomes ‘never again’ for all.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial policy.
