I stayed until the end, Dr Abu Nujaila. We will remember and rebuild

"Whoever survives until the end will tell the story. We have done our part—please remember us." These words were scribbled by Dr. Mahmoud Abu Nujaila at the Al-Awda Hospital in Jabalia refugee camp, Gaza, on October 20, 2023. He scrawled them in blue ink on a whiteboard used for scheduling surgeries. These words are a testament to resilience, a final message of defiance.

A month later, Dr. Nujaila redefined the ethical dimensions of the medical oath not with words, but with his own blood. An Israeli airstrike on the hospital killed him and two of his colleagues, Dr. Ahmed Al-Sahar and Dr. Ziad Al-Tatar. Dr. Nujaila's words have haunted me for 15 months as I watch in horror as the Gazan healthcare system I once hoped to work in is bombed to rubble, the doctors I once hoped to learn from—killed, tortured, forcibly disappeared.

Every aspect of life has been tainted by death. Every warm memory has been eroded by horror. Every certainty has been replaced by an abyss of the unknown. Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City, where I volunteered in the emergency room just a month before the genocide began, has been attacked, looted, and burned. It was Gaza's largest hospital, providing critical care unavailable elsewhere, and gathered a cadre of highly skilled doctors. It was not only a place of healing, but a refuge for displaced people. Ultimately, it became a graveyard.

I was involved in a breast cancer awareness university project at the Turkish-Palestinian Friendship Hospital, which was bombed, then besieged and shut down, its patients left to die slowly and helplessly. The fate of Gaza's only cancer hospital was sealed by its geography—located within what the Israeli army calls the "death axis," the Netzarim Corridor, which the Israeli army established and occupied to divide Gaza into north and south. Al-Quds Hospital in Gaza City, where my grandmother underwent a vital operation by the dedicated and skilled surgeon Dr. Muhammad Al-Roun, was attacked and shelled. Then it was besieged, cut off from the world—its medical staff, patients, and displaced civilians trapped inside without food or water. Eventually, all were forcibly evicted, and the hospital ceased to function.

I later learned that Dr. Al-Roun was forcibly disappeared from another hospital in northern Gaza and tortured in an Israeli dungeon. When he emerged two months later, he had lost 30 kilograms (65 pounds). He is still one of the lucky ones. Dr. Adnan Al-Bursh, a prominent surgeon at Al-Shifa Hospital, was tortured to death. Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya, the head of Kamal Adwan Hospital, remains imprisoned by Israel, where he has been subjected to torture and abuse. More than 1,000 healthcare workers have been killed in Gaza. More than 300 have been forcibly disappeared.

It is clear that healthcare workers are being targeted in Gaza. Practicing medicine has become a deadly profession. Yet, I do not feel afraid or discouraged. The doctors who have stood up for their patients and risked their lives during the genocide have become an inspiration: Dr. Abu Safiya, Dr. Ghassan Abu Sitta, Dr. Muhammad Abu Salmiya, and so many others. My sister, Dr. Mariam Salama Abu Helo, has been my role model. She works as a pediatrician at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, the only remaining operational hospital in the south, overwhelmed and overburdened. She and her colleagues have witnessed horrors—children injured, orphaned, burned, malnourished, frozen to death.

Despite witnessing the destruction of the Gazan healthcare system and the mass murder of Palestinian healthcare workers, my determination to become a doctor has only grown stronger in the past 15 months. Gaza needs its sons and daughters more than ever. Therefore, studying hard and becoming the best doctor I can be is my moral, patriotic, and humanitarian obligation. In January 2024, I had the opportunity to leave Gaza, but I refused. How could I abandon my homeland when it needs me most?

Displaced from the Nuseirat refugee camp, I carry my medical books with me, clinging to a sliver of hope that e-learning can help after all six universities in Gaza have been severely damaged or destroyed. I was still working on a research paper minutes before my second evacuation order arrived. I didn't know where I would go. I didn't know if there would be an internet connection. I didn't even know if I would survive. But in that moment, I couldn't leave my work unfinished. I begged my father to wait. Just let me finish this task. I endangered my life. I endangered my family. Yet, I stayed two hours longer under the bombing—working on the research paper.

I am one of hundreds of medical students in Gaza who, despite everything, want to stay. We are all at different stages of our training, eager to begin our careers in the wreckage of Gaza's hospitals, under the guidance of survivors of this onslaught. There are medical students and staff desperate to return home and provide care. One of them is my sister, Dr. Intimaa Salama Abu Helo, who earned her bachelor's degree in dental surgery in Gaza and then pursued master's and doctoral degrees in public health and social justice abroad. In December, after overcoming many obstacles, 80 medical students from Al-Azhar University graduated and became doctors ready to save lives.

I myself plan to graduate in 2028. I am determined to become a neurosurgeon. For Gaza. For my grandmother, who sacrificed everything last year. For my parents, who sacrificed everything to help me pursue this dream. For every stolen future. For every destroyed hospital. For every doctor lost. Dr. Abu Nujaila, I have succeeded. I will carry on with your story and the stories of other brave Palestinian doctors. We will not be defeated.