Rebecca Ruth Gould is a writer and scholar who teaches at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. Her most recent book is “Erasing Palestine” (Verso, 2023). She is currently working on “We Love Life: A Family’s Story of Surviving the Gaza Genocide” with the Lighthouse Collective. She writes and edits The Textual Materialist newsletter.
When Mohammad returned to their shelter in the Abu Asi Orphan Camp in Al Bureij, central Gaza, in June 2026, Sara knew her brother would not listen to her plea for him to rest. Only hours earlier, Israeli drones had destroyed his vehicle just seconds after he had left it. His crime: Working to support children and other displaced Palestinians in the camp.
This was not the first time his vehicle had been attacked, but it was the first time he had sustained severe injuries. Yet his efforts to support the people of Al Bureij continued. He moved between shelters, organizing emergency medical care for those in need. He secured food for the hungry and provided nutritional supplements to the malnourished.
Mohammad broke two ribs during the attack. His leg was cut so deep that he had to stitch it himself to stop the bleeding. His sister Sara, a pediatrician in Gaza, had seen this type of bleeding kill people. Fortunately, they had a small medical station in the camp to support the injured, albeit with few resources.
Despite the injury, Mohammad would not rest. Less than a day after he was attacked, an evacuation warning was issued for the Orphan Camp near the Abu Asi entrance in Al Bureij. Threatening Israeli leaflets fell from the sky, ordering residents to leave and throwing over 3,000 families into panic.
The name can mislead in English: Abu Asi Orphan Camp was not only for children who had lost their parents. It also sheltered widowed mothers with children, including girls and boys up to 16 years old. Where would they go?
In Gaza, even the wounded are conscripted into caring for others because there is no functioning system left to protect the displaced.
- Rebecca Ruth Gould
"What do I tell him," Sara wrote to me at the time, "when I see these women and children in this miserable situation?" She had earlier asked me to intervene and persuade Mohammad to take a long rest and let his ribs heal. From time to time, she also asked that I persuade him to leave Gaza so that he would survive. I could sense that she was giving up. In Gaza, even the wounded are conscripted into caring for others because there is no functioning system left to protect the displaced.
Sara knows the treatment broken ribs require. She also understands that orphaned children require a roof over their heads. Between those two truths, there is no rest. "All our teams are working nonstop in order to help, but the need is too much and far beyond what we can offer," she wrote in despair. "There are more than 3,000 families. What do we do?"
Against her medical judgment, Sara let her brother continue the difficult work of helping women and children leave after the evacuation warning. A week later, Israel attacked the camp. One Palestinian was killed and many more were injured. Residents were later allowed to return, but many tents had been destroyed by then. For many of the women and children, return did not mean shelter. It meant coming back to a place where their makeshift homes had been erased.
Throughout these tribulations, Mohammad said nothing about his pain. He even joked that his ribs disobeyed him, claiming that "they will need to learn not to fracture again until they are granted permission from their 'Amazing Handsome Smart Owner.' That's me of course."
Mohammad's gallows humor impressed everyone. As he went about the daily work of saving lives, those around him repeated his jokes with affection, grateful for any reason to laugh. His efforts to keep the camp supplied mattered immensely. Every day, he divided whatever scarce supplies he could obtain among those who most needed them in the camp.
For many of the women and children, return did not mean shelter. It meant coming back to a place where their makeshift homes had been erased.
- Rebecca Ruth Gould
In the weeks following the attack on his life, Mohammad began planning another trip north to attend the burial of his friends who had been killed. Sara continued to worry about him: "He has broken ribs and other deep injuries in his leg, and the stitches are still new. He is carrying out all these tasks, suffering all this pain, enduring all the stress of knowing he is being targeted by the most evil enemies in the world and is still keeping his calm and strength."
"I know he is a mountain in the shape of a man, but still, in my heart, I wish he didn't have to face and endure all this," she said. "No one should."
The next emergency arrived before the previous one had ended, with Israeli attacks on Al Bureij landing close to their shelter. The strikes damaged windows and shrapnel entered the small surgery room, destroying an electrosurgical unit and surgical suction machine. These machines had allowed Sara and her team to treat wounds and nurse the sick back to health. Without them, each injury became more dangerous.
Afterward, Mohammad said he would find a way to replace what had been destroyed. His ribs were still broken and the stitches in his leg were still fresh. The machines, however, were vital, and the center needed supplies. Soon after, he embarked on his journey north. Even there, among the dust, grief and hurried rites of farewell, he continued coordinating what the camp needed: food, baby formula, water purification tablets, medicines, women's hygiene products, pumps, spare parts and medical equipment.
For Sara, every absence became another ordeal of waiting. Communication was uncertain. She knew he was wounded, knew he was being targeted and knew that he would not stop simply because his body required rest. She imagined him standing in the north with broken ribs, offering condolences, reciting prayers and turning again toward the needs of the living.
By the time word came that he was safe, anxiety had entered her body. Her eldest sister came to the shelter to bring her home because the stress had affected her heartbeat and blood pressure. Sara tried to remain calm, understanding that everyone feared for Mohammad as well. But for her, he was not only her brother. He was, she wrote, "my teacher, my best friend, my support," and "the kindest heart and the noblest soul I'll ever know."
After Mohammad returned from the north, he set to work again. Wells still had to be dug. Food had to be found. Lives had to be saved.
Soon after Mohammad's return, Sara herself collapsed from exhaustion and strain. Mohammad nursed her back to health, even while he still needed medical care himself. Their roles had reversed, but the logic was the same: In Gaza, the wounded care for the critically wounded; the exhausted carry those who can no longer stand.
Mohammad's broken ribs are slowly healing, but rest remains out of reach. He continues to work through pain so that children he has never met might have milk and a place to sleep. Sara knows that none of this should be normal. Yet genocide is anything but normal. As a doctor, she knows that Mohammad should be lying still. As his sister, she knows why he cannot.
The orphans and mothers of Abu Asi were allowed to return, but many returned to tents erased from the earth. Mohammad survived the attack on his vehicle, and the work he risked his life to sustain continues. But the camp he helped to evacuate has been torn open. Thousands of people were made homeless by an order delivered through Israeli leaflets that rained down on Al Bureij in the first week of June. Yet these events fell beneath the radar of both English and Arabic media, which have yet to tell the story of this displacement.
It has been left to health care workers such as Sara and Mohammad to make these tragedies known to the world.
The views and positions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of DAWN.
