From The Memory Of War

I was in the operating room, working with every ounce of strength and patience left in me.

Long hours of exhaustion, sleepless nights, and silent pain —

but one thing kept me going:

my determination to serve the wounded who kept pouring in —

children, women, the elderly, the young —

all victims of relentless, indiscriminate bombing.

Everywhere, explosions. Everywhere, cries.

They told me about a young man who had been hit with his family.

His case was critical — his leg needed to be amputated below the knee.

I waited for his arrival from the emergency room.

When they finally brought him in,

I saw a young man in his twenties, pale, silent, his face marked by shock.

After we put him under anesthesia, I examined his leg.

It was torn apart — beyond repair.

I stepped out to speak with his family,

and there she was… his mother.

She was sitting on the floor, weeping quietly,

her tears carrying the weight of a lifetime.

I said softly,

“Mother, his leg is in a very bad condition. We have no choice but to amputate.”

She looked up at me, her voice trembling:

“Please, doctor… don’t cut it off. He’s my only son. I have no one else in this world.

He is my whole life. I beg you.”

Then, she fell to her knees, trying to kiss my feet.

In that moment, time stopped.

I lifted her up, my heart breaking inside me, and whispered:

“Don’t worry, mother… I’ll do everything I can for him.”

I walked back to the operating room with tears clouding my eyes.

The silence inside was heavy.

I stared at his shattered leg and tried the impossible —

connecting the remaining bones, reshaping the muscles,

and fixing them with an external frame.

I knew deep down that the leg wouldn’t survive.

But how could I extinguish a mother’s only spark of hope?

Two hours later, the surgery was over.

I went out and said quietly,

“I didn’t amputate it, mother.”

She grabbed my hand and kissed it, tears streaming down her face.

“God bless you, my son,” she whispered.

In that moment, time froze again.

Her fragile joy over the faintest hope pierced through me.

This… is war.

It doesn’t only amputate limbs —

it amputates hearts and souls.

It takes sons from their mothers,

and peace from the hearts of doctors.

It leaves us — the medical teams — haunted by memories

that will never heal.

Scars with a single name: Gaza.

Dr Nasim
Gaza, Palestine

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