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It has been more than a month since a “ceasefire” took hold in Gaza. That, of course, does not mean that the killing of Palestinians has stopped. It simply means that it has been reduced to a rate that allows international media to ignore it.
And so, the world has largely moved on from the story. But I haven’t.
In July 2024, I joined a medical mission to Gaza and spent 22 days there, volunteering at hospitals. What I came back with is something I cannot easily explain.
The man my family knew, the son, brother, and husband they laughed with, the father who played with his children, feels lost to them now.
I call him the “previous Talal”.
My children, wife, siblings, parents, friends and colleagues, they all see the change. They tell me I have become distant, quiet, detached, and sometimes hard to reach. My emotions are messy and raw in ways words often fail to capture. It is not a single feeling, but a swarm of emotions that is not going away despite the news of a “ceasefire” and reassurances of “reconstruction”.
After witnessing human tragedy of indescribable proportions, I still feel anger bubbling at the injustice of it all, guilt for leaving behind the vulnerable, and a constant, aching helplessness at not being able to do something to stop this continuing annihilation.
I still feel uneasy when I see a lavish buffet meal on a table in front of me, knowing people continue to starve in Gaza.
The faces and scenes I have witnessed continue playing like a never-ending movie in my head: Starving children reduced to skeletons, parents who held onto body parts of their beloved children, completely charred humans, cozy blankets used as shrouds for human body parts, a bombed hospital, levelled buildings emitting the odour of decomposing bodies buried in their rubble.
I am still haunted by the choices I had to make: which patient to treat because there were not enough dialysis machines, or what words to use to explain to a child why their parent will not wake up.
Gaza has transformed me from a nephrologist to a journalist, storyteller, and humanitarian. Since I came back, I have written articles, spoken at mosques and universities, led talks at fundraisers, stood at marches, and met lawmakers, advocating for the oppressed people of Gaza in every way I can. Just like other colleagues who have been on medical missions to the Gaza Strip, I have tried to turn bearing witness into action so that Gaza is not forgotten.
I have tried to go back several times. Each time, Israel has denied me entry. Each denial has made my heart ache worse.
The distance between what I can do here and what is needed there feels unbearable. I constantly ask myself, “Am I doing enough? Have I failed?”
Is this sadness? Trauma? A conscience that refuses to be at peace? I do not know the proper label, and labels do not lessen the load.
What I do know is this: Gaza changed me in a way that cannot be undone, and to pretend otherwise would be a betrayal of what I saw and of the people I met.
The previous Talal is lost, but this new Talal is more humane, kind, compassionate, more realistic, more courageous and vocal, driven by the resilience and faith of the people of Gaza.
No medical training could prepare me to maintain a “life-genocide balance”.
Still, the despair and pain I carry now are only a pinch of what the Palestinians have endured day after day, for more than two years now. They have experienced unimaginable horrors, torture, starvation, injury and death.
If you read my story, please read not to offer sympathy but to remember: The genocide in Gaza is not over, and the besieged people of Gaza are still suffering. Behind every statistic in Gaza, there are human souls, ambitions, hopes and dignity.
The ceasefire is a temporary relief from the mass bombardment; true peace will come only when the occupation ends and justice is served.
As I share my emotions and experiences in Gaza, I am also heartbroken about what is happening in Sudan. It feels like watching a tragic replay of suffering and loss, human devastation livestreamed every day.
What troubles me even more is how easily the world seems to be getting used to it. This realisation is harrowing. Human civilisation has achieved so much in terms of progress and development, yet we seem to be regressing when it comes to compassion and humanity.
I write these words to call on people to take action.
To my fellow healthcare workers and humanitarians who have volunteered in Gaza, I say: we cannot let the world turn its back. We must not stop speaking about what we witnessed and what continues to happen in Gaza. We must continue to inform, rally and insist that full humanitarian and medical access to Gaza is granted.
To my fellow Americans, I say, we bear responsibility for what is happening in Gaza. Our country is directly involved in it, our taxpayers’ money is funding it. Do not stay silent because of intimidation. Speak, write, post and talk about it in your communities. Call your lawmakers. Do not allow the mass bombardment, torture and starvation of another people to be normalised.
And to all people of the world who still believe in the possibility of a free and just world, I say: the responsibility is ours to make sure it is. We have witnessed a livestreamed genocide, one of the greatest moral tests of our time. So do not fall into silence. Rise. Refuse to let a temporary ceasefire in Gaza or a protracted war in Sudan become a curtain that hides the genocidal reality. Keep insisting on an end to the violence, for the dignity of every human life.
Let us be the force that helps Gaza and Sudan heal, rebuild and remember, 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.
