When their ambulance was hit, I had to salvage my colleagues’ bodies

A year after the Hamas attack that triggered Israel’s invasion of Gaza, paramedic Younis Abdel Qader reveals the grim realities of trying to save civilian lives in a warzone

Nothing could have prepared me for the horror of the past year. I’m an emergency medical technician for the Palestine Red Crescent Society, working in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza.

My darkest moment came when four of my colleagues were killed when their ambulance was directly hit. I was on duty and part of the team that collected the bodies of our colleagues. It is like collecting your own remains because you wear the same uniform, perform the same duties, work in the same vehicle and sit in the same place as your fallen colleague. We are one unit; it really could have been me or anyone of us who was killed.

Losing a colleague is one of the hardest moments any of us can face, I keep thinking about the incident, whether the same could happen to me. I think about my work and my life at home with my family. The loss of my colleagues affects me deeply and has had a lasting impact on me. I think about their families and how they’re coping. I think about whether their children will have their basic needs met.

Inevitably, I think about how my family would cope if I was killed; who would care for them? International law affords us as humanitarian workers certain protections which should be upheld. The law of war is there to reduce human suffering even in conflict, and under this, medical and humanitarian workers must be protected.

Daily, I face unimaginable decisions. We work long, tiring, 24-hour shifts, with just a day to try and rest and recover afterwards. But during these periods, I’m faced with an impossible choice. Do I rest for my next shift, do I spend precious time with my family, or do I leave them to try and provide the food, water and other essential supplies they need?

I am just like anyone else in Gaza, and I’m living through this war like everyone else. I have a wife, children, a mother and siblings. As I say goodbye to my wife and children before my shift, I know I may not make it back to see them again. They know this too, but we try to smile and put on a brave face for each other.

It’s not easy spending long periods of work away from our homes and families, working under the threat of shelling, artillery fire and airstrikes. Those of us providing healthcare services in a warzone are normal people. We get scared, we feel sadness and anger. We live with the same suffering experienced by those we help, but it is multiplied by the conditions we work in.

I have been shaped by months of working under long periods of pressure and bombardment. I’ve been changed by being exposed to shocking numbers of dismembered bodies and horrific injuries week after week.

My colleagues and I do all we can to save lives and help those who need us during this war. But we shouldn’t have to risk our lives to save the lives of others. None of us should have to live in fear when we put on our uniforms and go to work.

Yet, as long as I’m alive, no matter the risks and hardships, I’ll do all I can to treat those who need me.