“The film you are about to watch is a compilation of video diaries I recorded on a volunteer medical mission into Gaza. What I saw there was worse than any war zone I’ve ever been to. I can’t be clear enough: The video is hard to watch, the footage is very graphic, but there are times when the world needs to see the horrors of war. I believe this is one of those times. There’s a young girl named Amira that you’ll get to meet. She has gruesome injuries. Amira should be on everyone’s mind every day that this war continues.” “End of Day 11. It’s been another really long day.” “First thing on the agenda was trying to get some patients transferred out of Gaza. There’s the 15-year-old kid that was paralyzed. He was hit by a tank shell when he was playing soccer. There’s one girl, Jenna. She’s really malnourished. Their families are asking us if they can be transferred. One of them just burst into tears, sobbing, and I just — I didn’t know what to do, because we can’t — we can’t take all of them. There was an airstrike. One of our paramedics was killed, and two of them were critically injured. It’s just a shock when you’re in the emergency room bay, they bring in someone who you know. His heart stopped, so we had to do chest compressions. We had to intubate him. And it was just really hard for the staff. They don’t have time to really even grieve, because if they stop, the work doesn’t get done, people die.” “It’s apocalyptic.” My name is Samer Attar, and I’m a surgeon from Chicago. In my spare time, I volunteer in war zones. And now I’m part of the first convoy of four international doctors to be embedded into northern Gaza. We’re completely cut off from the world. The mission is supposed to be two weeks long, but we bring enough food for a month, in case we get stranded. As we wait at this Israeli checkpoint, a bomb goes off nearby. We’re just one ambulance driving into the apocalypse, but I feel obligated to be here. I’m going to show you what a collapsed health care system actually looks like. Even if you follow the news, the images you see are a sanitized perspective of a war zone. So this time, I decided to film my journey. “Day 1.” “So it’s Day 2.” “It’s the end of Day 4.” “The end of Day 6, beginning of Day 7.” When I’m not operating, I record video diaries. “I did not get that much sleep last night.” “Another mass casualty event.” “Back-to-back-to-back cardiac arrests.” “They cut off the electricity to conserve fuel.” And I interview doctors and patients. “What was this?” “If there was a message you would like to tell the world —” “— one message you could share —” “If you wanted to give a message to the world, what would it be?” There are only a few hospitals that are actually working in Gaza. “And we’re stepping over dead bodies. There’s no morphine or fentanyl. We put in a couple chest tubes without anesthesia.” The mechanics jerry-rig equipment for surgeons to use to try to salvage limbs. There are always flies buzzing. Sterility here is more of a suggestion. There’s not enough blood in the blood bank for everyone. We only have enough to maybe save five to 10 emergency patients. It’s like we’re operating in the 19th century. The World Health Organization has documented 450 attacks on the health care system since Oct. 7. The staff of this hospital told me they were stripped to their underwear and handcuffed. And after one attack — Israel says Hamas hides in these facilities. “This is the entrance to the emergency room of Indonesian Hospital, which is currently nonfunctional.” When this hospital was bombed, it was reported that at least a dozen people were killed, but that’s a massive understatement, because when this CT scanner was destroyed, countless Gazans were given a death sentence. This patient, this patient, both of these patients, every single one of these patients needs a CT scan to diagnose their injury. “So just keep an eye on him and make sure nothing bad happens, and if it does, we do our best?” Many of these patients could be saved if they were just about anywhere else in the world. But here — “This is the end of Day 7, beginning of Day 8. It’s about 3 in the morning. The two patients that were taken to surgery emergently overnight died. We worked so hard the night before, putting in chest tubes and central lines and utilizing all these resources, and they don’t make it. And we’re wondering if it’s worth it.” In a war zone, triage is often a guessing game. I feel regret because people get left behind, like this little girl. Her name is Amira. Her legs were severely injured in a blast. I’m now going to show you her wounds, but be warned: They’re horrifying. We see this and far worse all day long. And I believe the world has a responsibility to see it, too. Patients like Amira are not emergencies, so we end up prioritizing others. Problem is that the longer we wait, the less likely it will be that we can save their limbs. That’s why triage is so difficult, saving one life means someone else dies or gets permanently disabled. This is Omar. He waited so long for surgery that his wounds became infected and now have maggots growing in them. There’s no choice left but to amputate. Fortunately, we can squeeze Amira in for surgery. We have to decide whether to amputate her legs, and her mom begs us to try and save them. Today, we don’t amputate. But to save her legs, she’s going to need additional surgeries. And I worry that when the time comes, the hospital will be too overwhelmed to help her. The longer this war goes on, the more wounds will become infected, the more limbs will have to be amputated. And without more resources, even the people who are lucky enough to survive will be permanently disabled. “I’m the first American you’ve ever met.” “Oh, no …” “And you live here, in this —” Many of these health care workers live in the hospital or in the rubble outside. Without their families, who are either dead or have fled south, I’m curious to know why they stayed behind. Abu Zakariya says that driving an ambulance gave him a sense of purpose. Haneen, the anesthetist, says her work helps her heal. A war zone is not just brutal wounds. There’s also kindness. There’s compassion and generosity, like when they bake us doughnuts, even though they’re starving. There’s resilience and the ways they continue to find joy, like from soccer. “I will do my best to make sure he sees it.” There’s a sense of duty to humanity. That’s what inspires these doctors and nurses to stay. It’s remarkable to witness. “He’s doing a lot better. Keep up the good work, buddy. All right. Well, that’s a win.” So what can actually be done to save more innocent lives? Any cease-fire agreement must address these three issues: First, it needs to be easier for aid to get into Gaza, especially bare necessities like food and fuel. The U.N. says that even basic items, including these children’s medical scissors, anesthetics and X-ray machines, are being denied entry. Second, it needs to be easier to get injured civilians out of Gaza. An estimated 14,000 patients need to be evacuated, but only a trickle are allowed out. Our convoy can’t get approval to bring a single one. Third, medical infrastructure needs to be protected. These aren’t political issues. They’re medical ones. They should be indisputable. “It’s the end of Day 13. It’s kind of mixed emotions because we’re happy to be going home but also sad to be leaving. Jenna, the 7-year-old, her mom came to me saying, ‘I thought we were coming with you.” Like, “What’s happening? Why are you going and we’re staying?” We feel a little guilty, almost a little ashamed. I stopped by the I.C.U. Khalid is one of the paramedics that was injured. Khalid lost his wife and three of his children, and he still continued to work as a paramedic. His prognosis isn’t that great. Next to him is Nabil. He was the kind man that was always offering me coffee and tea from his ambulance. He’s stable. He actually had the breathing tube removed this morning. All of his friends were there surrounding his bed. When you’re around people like this, it’s like a brotherhood. It’s very inspiring how people can maintain their spirits. There’s one more thing you need to see. On one of my last days, I come across a man collecting dirt. Going up the staircase. Holy cow. You weren’t kidding when you said you got a farm. His wife is pregnant, and he’s planting a garden to grow food for his future child. “How are you feeling this morning?” “Nabil. Yeah, he’s extubated. They took the breathing tube out.” Today, yeah. He’s awake. He’s a little drowsy, but he’s talking. He’s speaking.” “Do you have one, one quick message?”