The Electronic Intifada 11 October 2024
A doctor examines a boy with a skin condition at an encampment for displaced people in Deir al-Balah, central Gaza, in July 2024.
APA imagesToward the end of September, I had a severe toothache.
I tried to ignore it at first, but the pain became unbearable. Desperate for relief, I went to a nearby pharmacy.
I was met with an apologetic smile from the pharmacist.
“Sorry, we don’t have any antibiotics,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
I asked for a painkiller instead. His response was just as disheartening.
“We’re out of those too. You might find some paracetamol at one of the street stalls,” he added, still smiling as if trying to mask the grim reality of our situation.
This is the new normal in Gaza.
Shelves that once carried basic medications now stand empty, and even simple painkillers are a luxury.
I went to a government clinic, hoping for some relief.
The doctor, clearly worn down by a continuous stream of patients, asked me what was wrong. I described my symptoms, and without much examination, he prescribed paracetamol and Flagyl, an antibiotic.
These two medicines, it seems, are the catch-all prescriptions here. Whether you have an infection, bone pain, the flu or a toothache, you are given the same treatment.
It’s the only option available.
Frustrated but still in pain, I eventually followed the pharmacist’s suggestion and ventured to one of the many makeshift stalls on the street. These stalls, once unthinkable as places to purchase medicine, have become the last resort for those of us needing pain relief.
Buying medication streetside
As I approached a young man selling medicine, I watched in disbelief as he confidently handed out pills to a crowd.
“Here’s an antibiotic for a urinary tract infection,” he said to one person.
To another: “This is a great cough medicine.”
There was no regard for diagnosis, no expertise. People were buying medicine from someone who might have been as ignorant as they were desperate, trusting a pharmacist-by-chance created by war.
The value of a human life here has been reduced to almost nothing.
Falling sick is terrifying because illness in Gaza now means possibly facing death, not from the disease itself but from the complete lack of medical care.
A woman passing by shared her story with me. Her daughter had broken her leg, but when she took her to a hospital in Deir al-Balah, the doctors apologized for not having plaster to create a cast. Instead, they used wooden splints.
A week later, the girl’s condition worsened. She is now facing a likely permanent disability.
Another young man, injured in an airstrike, had his leg amputated because there had been no proper treatment available for his wound. But without proper hygiene products, the wound left still became infected.
These are just two among thousands of similarly tragic stories in Gaza.
The blockade and the war haven’t not only restricted the ability to get nourishing food and clean water but also the entry of life-saving medical supplies. What little medicine is allowed in is never enough to meet the needs of the injured and ill, let alone all those displaced and living in overcrowded shelters.
The UN and international health medical groups like Doctors Without Borders have reported a critical lack of medical supplies and medicines in Gaza as a result of Israel’s obstruction of humanitarian aid supplies.
Outbreaks of infectious disease are soaring, with 40,000 confirmed cases of Hepatitis A just the tip of the iceberg.
In August, the World Health Organization confirmed the return of polio. Two infants have already been diagnosed.
Hygiene horror movie
The situation goes beyond just medicine. Soap, disinfectants, toothpaste and razors are also in short supply.
People have resorted to making their own soap, but the long-term effects of the absence of basic hygiene products on our health are starting to show. My children have developed rashes, and I can’t do anything about them. Seeing them suffer makes me feel helpless, as if our lives don’t matter anymore.
It feels like something out of a horror movie, yet this is our reality.
More than two million people are trapped in Gaza, subjected to a comprehensive siege, continuous bombings and now epidemics. Those who manage to find medicine often do so at great risk, buying from unqualified vendors selling stolen or counterfeit drugs.
Our chances of survival feel slimmer each day.
This is happening in the twenty-first century, under the watch of a world that claims to value human rights and dignity.
How can an entire people be left to suffer like this — deprived of food, water, fuel and medicine — while the world stands by and watches?
As winter approaches, the fear only grows. Our tents will flood, and we won’t have the medicine to treat the inevitable wave of winter illnesses.
How can we survive this?
Shojaa al-Safadi is a Palestinian writer and poet, a member of the Palestinian Writers Union, and a founder and director of the Friendship Cultural Forum from 2004 to 2014.
