When I arrived in the ER at Yale New Haven Hospital late one night, my first thought was, “This is not like the hospitals in Gaza.”
There was no blood or other bodily fluids on the floor, no patients being treated without painkillers, no screaming of horribly injured children, no wailing of mothers holding dying babies. It was calm and clean and quiet, except for the outburst of one unhappy patient.
My husband, having COVID, was put in a tiny room by himself. The bed was very uncomfortable — but hey, it was a bed. The food was overcooked and tasteless — but hey, there was food. The staff were efficient and solicitous — not ridiculously overworked, stressed out and in danger of being killed themselves. Since it was a Friday night, there were patients in beds lining the corridors — but there were not thousands of civilians crowding the hospital in (mostly vain) hopes of finding safety from bombs and soldiers’ assaults.
On one of my media outlets I hear a steady drumbeat of interviews with international doctors volunteering in Gaza’s hospitals — or what remains of them. Their description of injuries and how the environment itself has been weaponized, with pulverized concrete creating breathing emergencies and chunks of concrete becoming flying missiles, embedding in civilians’ faces, is heartbreaking.
My husband and I went to New York recently to visit with our granddaughter, who lives in California. She wanted to take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. We lined up and were herded like cattle onto the ferry — where we were packed in like sardines. I couldn’t help but think about the Palestinians in Gaza who are herded from one city to another, like cattle. There were bathrooms on the ferry, and I couldn’t help wondering how one could safety and privately go to the bathroom in Gaza. You can’t.
There was a very pregnant woman on line, which made me think about pregnant women in Gaza, giving birth in the street, because their homes and their hospitals have been destroyed, with maybe just a tent for privacy. Imagine the stress of carrying through a pregnancy — or losing it — in the past six months.
Inside the statue, we read quotes from immigrants about how joyful they felt when first spying Lady Liberty after a long voyage across the Atlantic, and we read Emma Lazarus’s poem about welcoming the tired, the poor, yearning to breathe free. And again, I thought of the Palestinians — in Gaza, the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the diaspora — also wanting to breathe free, and be safe.
Every time I took a drink of water on the ride — really any time I take a drink of water — I think how the people of Gaza have no clean water.
I bet you could suggest just about any topic and I could think of a Gaza connection, because Gaza is on my mind. We need a permanent ceasefire now, the release of all hostages on both sides (including Palestinians held without charge or trial) and an end to the 57-year Israeli occupation.
On May 23, 24 and 25, some of us have organized a Walk for Gaza CT, where we’ll walk a total of 25 miles — the length of Gaza — in solidarity with Palestinians. You can join us here.
Melinda Tuhus lives in New Haven.