I was in the operating room, working with every ounce of
strength and patience left in me.
Long hours of
exhaustion, sleepless nights, and silent pain —
but
one thing kept me going:
my determination to serve the
wounded who kept pouring in —
children, women, the
elderly, the young —
all victims of relentless,
indiscriminate bombing.
Everywhere, explosions.
Everywhere, cries.
They told me about a young man who
had been hit with his family.
His case was critical
— his leg needed to be amputated below the knee.
I
waited for his arrival from the emergency room.
When
they finally brought him in,
I saw a young man in his
twenties, pale, silent, his face marked by
shock.
After we put him under anesthesia, I examined
his leg.
It was torn apart — beyond repair.
I
stepped out to speak with his family,
and there she
was… his mother.
She was sitting on the floor,
weeping quietly,
her tears carrying the weight of a
lifetime.
I said softly,
“Mother, his leg is
in a very bad condition. We have no choice but to
amputate.”
She looked up at me, her voice
trembling:
“Please, doctor… don’t cut it off.
He’s my only son. I have no one else in this
world.
He is my whole life. I beg you.”
Then,
she fell to her knees, trying to kiss my feet.
In that
moment, time stopped.
I lifted her up, my heart
breaking inside me, and whispered:
“Don’t worry,
mother… I’ll do everything I can for him.”
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I
walked back to the operating room with tears clouding my
eyes.
The silence inside was heavy.
I stared at
his shattered leg and tried the impossible
—
connecting the remaining bones, reshaping the
muscles,
and fixing them with an external
frame.
I knew deep down that the leg wouldn’t
survive.
But how could I extinguish a mother’s only
spark of hope?
Two hours later, the surgery was
over.
I went out and said quietly,
“I didn’t
amputate it, mother.”
She grabbed my hand and kissed
it, tears streaming down her face.
“God bless you,
my son,” she whispered.
In that moment, time froze
again.
Her fragile joy over the faintest hope pierced
through me.
This… is war.
It doesn’t only
amputate limbs —
it amputates hearts and
souls.
It takes sons from their mothers,
and
peace from the hearts of doctors.
It leaves us — the
medical teams — haunted by memories
that will never
heal.
Scars with a single name: Gaza.
Dr Nasim
Gaza,
Palestine
