“The two of us are humanitarian surgeons,” the authors of this essay explain. “Together, in our combined 57 years of volunteering, we’ve worked on more than 40 surgical missions in developing countries on four continents…. None of that prepared us for what we saw in Gaza this spring.” In horrific detail, Mark Perlmutter and Feroze Sidwha describe the two weeks they spent treating Palestinian patients, including children with maggot-infested wounds sustained in Israel’s unrelenting bombing campaign and others shot directly in the head—Perlmutter believes they were targeted by snipers. On the week Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu will address the U.S. Congress, this essay is the latest in a litany of news coverage over the past nine and a half months that has asked where this violence ends, what it’s all been for, and who, if anyone, will be held accountable for it:
We noticed that bombing seemed to peak at iftar when families were gathered together to break the fast during Ramadan with whatever food they had available.
Most of the bombardment was directed at empty buildings, but when an inhabited one was hit we’d see a flood of casualties. Those who made it to us alive met very specific criteria: They were trapped in part of the collapsed building that was accessible to people digging with their hands — and their injuries weren’t severe enough to kill them over the hours it took to free them.
Israa, a 26-year-old woman with a fair complexion and a quiet voice, arrived with our first mass casualty event around 4 a.m., on our second day in Gaza. In the chaos nobody could translate for us, so we were forced to improvise as she sobbed uncontrollably on a stretcher. All the ligaments in her right knee were torn; she had three open fractures in her two legs; and a massive chunk of her left thigh had been torn off. Both of her hands had second degree burns, and her face, arms and chest were stippled with shrapnel and debris. In the same incident a teenage girl came in with a lethal traumatic brain injury (she died the next morning) and a 7-year-old boy came in with a ruptured spleen (he recovered after several days).
…
We took Israa to the operating room. In the United States or Israel this would have been a 5-minute transition, but in the most functional hospital in Gaza it took more than one hour to get her there — working in such a severely compromised space, there was simply no way to get a trauma patient into surgery quickly. During her surgery, we realigned her broken femur, tibia and ankle in external fixators, explored an injured artery, cut chunks of dead tissue out of the massive wound in her thigh and her burned hands (a procedure known as debridement) and stopped her bleeding. It took three experienced surgeons almost four hours to do all of this. For the next 24 hours we were at her bedside almost continuously, knowing the traumatized and exhausted local staff couldn’t be expected to care for her properly.
After three days in the hospital, Israa, a mother of four, told us how she was injured: Her home was bombed without warning. She saw all her children die in front of her when the ceiling collapsed on top of them. Her relatives confirmed that her entire immediate family was buried under the rubble of their home. We didn’t have the heart to tell Israa that some of her children were probably still alive at that moment, dying unimaginably cruel deaths from dehydration and sepsis while trapped alone in a pitch-black tomb that alternates as an oven during the day and a freezer at night.
One shudders to think how many children have died this way in Gaza.
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