Today we’re sharing with you the third episode of Nour’s diary, our psychologist living in Gaza. In this one she talks about her work, as a psychologist, since of October 7th.
Please find the last episode here : “I miss the sea, its sand, delicious fish (…) I miss our gatherings and laughter”
Camille Nozières, press officer
Today, we are in September. After 11 months of war, they, once again, bring us news of another round of ceasefire negotiations.
This news, repeated so often, has become both a flicker of hope and a source of heartbreak for us. It’s like the saying goes, “A drowning person clutches at straws.” As an optimist, I was one of those who clung most tightly to these straws. Yet, each time, that optimism would end in tragedy, with the loss of a loved one, a friend, or the forced displacement of more people.
After nearly two months of being displaced twice within the Middle area, enduring harsh security and living conditions, we were struggling just to survive. We felt like we had lost our dignity and humanity. How does it feel when you can’t find food for your children, clean water, a bed to sleep on, or even when you have to stand in line just to use the bathroom? How do you sometimes hold back from eating or drinking just so you won’t need the bathroom? Then came winter, and we didn’t even have winter clothes. I remember how I had to borrow and wear men’s clothing from those who hosted us. These painful details weighed heavily on me and on everyone who lived through them, for a proud people who once lived with dignity and were accustomed to living with honor.
As we endured the agonizing moments of war, surrounded by brutality, loss, and the constant threat of death, we anxiously followed the news from northern Gaza, worrying about our loved ones who remained there. The images of the rubble that had once been our streets and homes were heart-wrenching. Whenever I read about cities that had been completely destroyed in history, I thought such descriptions were metaphorical—how could an entire city, with its neighborhoods, streets, trees, and history, be completely destroyed? I believed it was just a figure of speech. But now, I know it’s real, and seeing this destruction firsthand, my heart is shattered by the devastation of my city, and the most painful question remains: how does it come to pass that a person’s greatest wish becomes simply to return to the ruins of their destroyed home ?
Living in a garage
In late December, I was forced to flee again from the Middle area after new evacuation orders. I left, full of sorrow and fear, unsure of where to go, just like the thousands of others repeating, “Where do we go?” We went to Rafah, the last city in the south of Gaza. My friend Amani found us a place to live in a car garage. She welcomed and supported me when I felt lost. It was just a few meters of space, but we lived there for several months.
In Rafah, I met my colleagues from work for the first time since the war began. I remember crying and hugging them when I saw them—people with whom I had spent so much of my time, who reminded me of my previous life in Gaza, of our work and accomplishments, of our once dignified lives.
Despite the scarcity of resources and the challenging security situation, we initiated our work in Rafah. We established two medical points, starting with one in a camp that housed over 27,000 displaced people. Constructed from wood and tents, the sight of those tents weighed heavily on my heart each day. I wished they would vanish, not just from my sight, but from existence.
In Médecins du Monde medical points, we provided health care and psychological services. The need was overwhelming, as people were in desperate need of services amid the deteriorating healthcare system .We left our families in displacement shelters and went to work, our hearts gripped by the fear that we might not find them when we returned. We gave everything we had, working hand in hand, welcoming the grieving, the injured, and the sick with smiles, support, and compassion, offering them hope for better days.
Working as a health care or mental health providers during war and emergencies is particularly challenging because we share the same experiences and traumas as our patients.
Psychological distress
I remember a poignant moment with a colleague while we were working at the medical point in Rafah. He was dispensing medicine with dedication when he asked a father for his sick child’s name. The father replied, “Batool, Batool, Batool.” My colleague, Ismail, froze—Batool was the name of his own daughter, who had been just two years and nine months old when she was killed in an airstrike on their home. She was the closest to her father’s heart, the person she loved most. We stepped outside for a few minutes, unable to hold back our tears. He showed me pictures of his beautiful daughter, telling me how much he missed her. My heart broke for him, and I prayed for his strength. Then, with heavy hearts, we returned to our work. Despite all this sorrow, Ismail continues his work with unwavering dedication. His smile never falters as he greets each person he encounters, and people love him for it, preferring him, knowing they are in the hands of someone who truly cares.
The psychological impact and scars of war run deep, and the psychological state of the population is dire, and the available services are insufficient to meet the overwhelming need leaving many trapped in an unending cycle of fear and anxiety. living in constant fear due to the ongoing war, violence and instability, threat has instilled a sense of dread that never leaves, making it difficult for individuals to find a sense of security, further exacerbating their psychological distress. Moreover, the challenge of providing mental health support in these conditions is immense. Many clinics and hospitals have been destroyed or are overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in need, leaving access to services severely limited. Already strained by the volume of physical injuries, the healthcare system is struggling to cope with the escalating mental health crisis.
Yet, despite these all of this, we continue to strive, to heal, and to offer hope where it seems all but lost. This is our mission; to support, to listen, and to stand beside those who have lost so much, as we all dream of a day when peace is more than just a distant hope.