A doctor's letter from the besieged Syrian city of Homs

A Syrian surgeon describes his struggles to treat the wounded in Homs and calls on the international community to intervene.

I am a doctor working under siege in Homs, performing surgical operations in a basic hospital set up in an underground basement. The conditions in this field hospital are very bad, and it is especially hard to keep the hospital sterile. We have only basic surgical equipment and expired anaesthetic medication to treat the wounded. Patients who need blood transfusions are given blood directly from donors, and it is transfused without medical screening.

It has been five hundred days since a siege was imposed on Homs by Assad’s forces. Over 500,000 people have fled or died, but 3,000 people are still living here. Among the 400 families still here, most of the remaining family members are women, children and old people, and the injured who cannot move. These thousands of women, children, elderly and wounded survivors of this war are being denied access to the basic necessities of life.

For the past year and a half, this has been our life here: we have to drink from polluted wells and wash in sewage water. Food is restricted to lentils and bulgur wheat, and has been for months. There is no flour or milk or any kind of meat because of this siege.

We eat leaves and rotten rice. We have had no electricity for 500 days. We don't even have baby milk due to the siege. I see babies’ mothers who cannot breastfeed them due to stress and malnutrition: infants who should be healthy are starving and dying.

As for my job as a surgeon, we must transport patients through gaps in the walls across the neighbourhood because there are snipers outside. People move between neighbourhoods through underground tunnels. Many of the injured have died because it has been impossible to reach them. Our small medical facilities are frequently targeted, which has forced us to move our operations many times. 

Of the patients we see and treat, many initially improve after surgery but then die a slow death during recovery because of poor nutrition and the lack of serums to keep them hydrated. Those who do survive often experience poor wound healing as a result of medical shortages. 

Homs, my city, was one of the first places in Syria that hosted a UN delegation before the siege. The people of Homs gave them their best hospitality. My people stood in the streets risking their lives, all to get their voice heard. They are still waiting, five hundred days later.

We need to get this important message out and call upon the world’s media, the UN, NGOs and politicians to help break this slow killer, this inhuman siege. If you keep Assad in place, do not bother about withdrawing chemical weapons because at least, given the alternatives I see, it is a merciful way to die.

Please help us. Get us the deliveries of food and medicine that we need to survive, this is our basic human right. Does anyone hear the screams of women and children or feel the pain of the injured? Your brothers and sisters in the besieged neighbourhoods of Homs are right now screaming for your help. I hear them all the time. Isn't there any reply?

Dr Mosab is a surgeon in Homs. We have not used his full name to protect his identity.

 

The Syrian flag flying next to destruction in the Baba Amr neighbourhood of Homs in May 2012. Photo: Getty.
ROBERTO SCHMIDT/AFP/Getty Images
Show Hide image

Unlikely sisters in the Gaza Strip

A former Jewish settler in Gaza recalls her childhood friendship with a young Palestinian.

It was well after midnight, one summer night in 1995, when Inbar Rozy, a 13-year-old living in the former Israeli settlement of Alei Sinai in the northern Gaza Strip, heard her parents answer the phone. Sitting up in bed, surrounded by potted plants, candles and fairy dolls lit by shafts of light from a nearby security outpost, Inbar listened closely.

“I could hear everyone talking around me, making calls,” Inbar said when we met recently in Nitzan, southern Israel. When she got up to find out what was happening, her parents told her to make up a second mattress. As dawn broke, they led into the room a young woman carrying a small bag and wearing a black shirt and jeans. “She had shoulder-length dark hair dyed with red henna and beautiful eyes – big, black with thick eyelashes,” Inbar told me, smiling. “[She was] quiet. She looked scared.”

The woman was Rina (her surname cannot be given for security reasons), a talented artist in her early twenties studying at a local art college, where she had fallen in love with a Christian boy. For Rina, coming from a traditional family, marrying a non-Muslim would be strictly forbidden.

When her parents found out, they were furious and forbade her from seeing her boyfriend. But her male cousins felt this wasn’t enough. Earlier on the day the girls first met, Rina’s cousins had attempted to kill her in retribution for her perceived “honour crime”. Seeing that another attempt on her life was likely, Rina’s father called a relative, who in turn called Inbar’s father, Yossef, a friend of many years. There was no doubt she had to leave. Ironically, a Jewish settlement protected by the Israel Defence Forces was the safest place in Gaza for her to be.

In 1967, Israel seized the Gaza Strip from Egypt during the Six Day War. In time, it settled 21 communities on a third of the land, with a population of 8,000 by 2005. Soldiers guarded the settlements from 1.5 million displaced Palestinians, tens of thousands of whom were displaced in 1967 and moved to live in nearby refugee camps. In Gaza, before Israel’s ultimate withdrawal from the Strip in 2005, relationships between Israeli settlers and Palestinians were fraught. True, many Palestinians worked in Israeli settlements, earning wages higher than elsewhere in the Strip, but the two communities lived largely separate lives.

In the mid-1990s, even after the Oslo Accords, violence was simmering. Israeli military incursions increased with the outbreak of the Second Intifada in 2000. Thousands of home-made Qassam rockets were launched by Palestinian militants at settlers and those living in southern Israel. Security measures hardened. The veteran Israeli journalist Amira Hass, who spent several years living in Gaza, describes neighbourhoods that were “turned into jails behind barbed-wire fences, closed gates, IDF surveillance, tanks and entry-permit red tape”.

And yet, in spite of the forced segregation, Inbar’s family enjoyed close links with their Palestinian neighbours. Inbar’s father worked as an ambulance driver, and on several occasions he helped transport those who lived nearby for emergency medical treatment in Israel. “Every Tuesday, my father’s Jewish and Arab friends would come to our house and we’d eat lunch together,” Inbar remembered.

Given the gravity of Rina’s situation, she couldn’t leave the house. Secrecy was paramount. The girls spent weeks together indoors, Inbar said, chatting, watching TV and drawing. “I’m not sure that as a child I actually understood it for real,” she said. “She taught me how to paint and sketch a face from sight.”

Almost as soon as Rina arrived, Inbar’s family began receiving anonymous phone calls asking about her. “My dad told me, ‘Don’t mention anything about Rina. Say you don’t know what they’re talking about – because otherwise they’ll come and kill us,’” Inbar said.

While the girls got to know each other, Inbar’s mother, Brigitte, found a women’s shelter in East Jerusalem for Rina. Whereas today Gaza is closed off by a military border under heavy surveillance, at that time it was porous. Brigitte drove Rina in to the capital, where she was given a new name and identity that would enable her to begin a new life, on condition that she contact no one in Gaza.

Today Inbar, who is 33, works at the Gush Katif centre in Nitzan – a museum dedicated to the memory of the Israeli settlements in Gaza. Despite her parents’ objections, the family was evacuated in 2005. Unlike most settlers in Gaza, some residents of Alei Sinai were determined to stay on, even if that meant forfeiting their Israeli citizenship. “I have no problem with living as a minority in a Palestinian state,” one of Alei Sinai’s inhabitants, Avi Farhan, told the Israeli daily Haaretz at the time.

Inbar now lives in Ashkelon, a city of 140,000 in southern Israel, and finds the big city alienating, especially when she recalls the warm relationships that once existed in Gaza. “I’ve never felt less secure,” she told me.

Years later, she learned that Rina had developed cancer and died. “The day before Rina left . . . she drew a portrait of me,” she said, describing how her friend had outlined, in charcoal strokes, the features of the teenager. Her parents packed the portrait with all their belongings in a shipping container the day they left Gaza. Soon after, the container was destroyed in a fire.

“I think if people had given it a chance . . . they would have had these kinds of friendships,” Inbar said, looking back. “We’d get along fairly well if we didn’t look at others as the monsters over the wall.” 

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism