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Dr. Ezzideen

@ezzingaza • 33,732 subscribers

Doctor, sometimes a writer. Revealing hidden stories, a voice for the unheard. Witness to humanity's darkest depths.

Shorts

Last night, death visited our building. None of us knew. At 1:40 a.m., a violent explosion tore us from our sleep. The blast ripped through the plastic sheeting covering our windows. The glass had been shattered long ago by previous airstrikes. Within seconds, windows flew open across the neighborhood. Faces emerged from the darkness as phone flashlights swept over the street like tiny stars trying to replace a sky that had abandoned us. Even the moon seemed to hide behind the clouds, unwilling to witness what had happened. We knew death had arrived. We just didn’t know whose door it had chosen. Some neighbors went downstairs. We stayed where we were, caught between the instinct to run and the fear of becoming the next target. Minutes later, ambulances arrived. They moved slowly through the streets before the paramedics stepped out and asked, “Where was the strike?” No one knew. The darkness had swallowed everything. After searching for nearly fifteen minutes, they drove away. We assumed they had found the victims. The next day, around noon, we learned the truth. The apartment that had been struck was in the very building where we are renting our home. A husband and wife had been killed just a few meters from us. All night, we searched for death with the light from our phones, never realizing it had already climbed the same staircase we use every day. Even the ambulances had stopped beneath our building without realizing the place they were searching for was directly above them. Over the past few days, the Israeli military has intensified its attacks across Gaza. Walking to work is dangerous. Standing in the street is dangerous. Returning home has become an act of hope rather than certainty. This is how we live now. Death no longer knocks. It slips silently through the darkness, chooses an apartment, and disappears before anyone understands where it has been. By morning, the world is already reading another headline. But we remain here, living in buildings where even the moon seems too frightened to look through our windows, wondering every night whether tomorrow still belongs to us. #WoundedGaza

Last night, death visited our building. None of us knew. At 1:40 a.m., a violent explosion tore us from our sleep. The blast ripped through the plastic sheeting covering our windows. The glass had been shattered long ago by previous airstrikes. Within seconds, windows flew open across the neighborhood. Faces emerged from the darkness as phone flashlights swept over the street like tiny stars trying to replace a sky that had abandoned us. Even the moon seemed to hide behind the clouds, unwilling to witness what had happened. We knew death had arrived. We just didn’t know whose door it had chosen. Some neighbors went downstairs. We stayed where we were, caught between the instinct to run and the fear of becoming the next target. Minutes later, ambulances arrived. They moved slowly through the streets before the paramedics stepped out and asked, “Where was the strike?” No one knew. The darkness had swallowed everything. After searching for nearly fifteen minutes, they drove away. We assumed they had found the victims. The next day, around noon, we learned the truth. The apartment that had been struck was in the very building where we are renting our home. A husband and wife had been killed just a few meters from us. All night, we searched for death with the light from our phones, never realizing it had already climbed the same staircase we use every day. Even the ambulances had stopped beneath our building without realizing the place they were searching for was directly above them. Over the past few days, the Israeli military has intensified its attacks across Gaza. Walking to work is dangerous. Standing in the street is dangerous. Returning home has become an act of hope rather than certainty. This is how we live now. Death no longer knocks. It slips silently through the darkness, chooses an apartment, and disappears before anyone understands where it has been. By morning, the world is already reading another headline. But we remain here, living in buildings where even the moon seems too frightened to look through our windows, wondering every night whether tomorrow still belongs to us. #WoundedGaza

12,498 views

These videos shows what remains of our home and neighborhood, nothing but rubble.

These videos shows what remains of our home and neighborhood, nothing but rubble.

227,402 views

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There are things in this world that should never happen and yet, they are happening. This story sounds like fiction. But this is our life. Two and a half years ago, when the Israeli army entered Al Shifa Hospital, they took a number of newborn babies from the maternity ward. Newborns. They were separated from their mothers, from the only warmth they had ever known and sent to Egypt. Without names. Without families. Without anyone to claim them. They disappeared. For more than a year, there was no news. No answers. No certainty about whether they were even alive. Yesterday, some of them were returned. And I cannot stop thinking about one moment. A mother standing there.. trying to describe her child. Describing the face of a baby she had only known for less than a week. Trying to recognize her own son through memory alone. Through fragments. Through hope. Through pain. Then, suddenly.. he is in front of her. Alive. She breaks. A joy so overwhelming it almost looks like grief. And the child? He looks at her .. without recognition. Without memory. Without the instinct that should have guided him back to her arms. He does not know her !! And perhaps what is even more devastating he does not know what a mother is. What kind of world separates a child from his mother before he even learns her face? What kind of war steals not only lives, but the most basic human bonds? This is not just loss. This is something deeper. Something colder. Something that tears at the very meaning of being human. This .. is what hell looks like. #WoundedGaza

There are things in this world that should never happen and yet, they are happening. This story sounds like fiction. But this is our life. Two and a half years ago, when the Israeli army entered Al Shifa Hospital, they took a number of newborn babies from the maternity ward. Newborns. They were separated from their mothers, from the only warmth they had ever known and sent to Egypt. Without names. Without families. Without anyone to claim them. They disappeared. For more than a year, there was no news. No answers. No certainty about whether they were even alive. Yesterday, some of them were returned. And I cannot stop thinking about one moment. A mother standing there.. trying to describe her child. Describing the face of a baby she had only known for less than a week. Trying to recognize her own son through memory alone. Through fragments. Through hope. Through pain. Then, suddenly.. he is in front of her. Alive. She breaks. A joy so overwhelming it almost looks like grief. And the child? He looks at her .. without recognition. Without memory. Without the instinct that should have guided him back to her arms. He does not know her !! And perhaps what is even more devastating he does not know what a mother is. What kind of world separates a child from his mother before he even learns her face? What kind of war steals not only lives, but the most basic human bonds? This is not just loss. This is something deeper. Something colder. Something that tears at the very meaning of being human. This .. is what hell looks like. #WoundedGaza

193,123 views • 3 months ago

The child dances between the tents, as if the earth has not yet learned how to stop giving birth to joy. Around him, the rubble stands like silent witnesses to endless war, but to him they are only stones to jump over. In Gaza, children learn to dance the way others learn to walk: as an instinct for survival, not a luxury. He does not know he is dancing over memories heavier than his age, or that his small steps are writing another story for this place. Gaza is not told only through destruction, but through those who find a reason to laugh when laughter seems impossible. Every movement feels like a quiet insistence that life is still here. When he grows tired, he pauses, looks around, and begins again. Children in Gaza cannot afford long sorrow, yet their hearts insist on remaining small enough to dance. In that insistence lies a story war cannot end. And now, enjoy the video 💃🕺. #WoundedGaza

The child dances between the tents, as if the earth has not yet learned how to stop giving birth to joy. Around him, the rubble stands like silent witnesses to endless war, but to him they are only stones to jump over. In Gaza, children learn to dance the way others learn to walk: as an instinct for survival, not a luxury. He does not know he is dancing over memories heavier than his age, or that his small steps are writing another story for this place. Gaza is not told only through destruction, but through those who find a reason to laugh when laughter seems impossible. Every movement feels like a quiet insistence that life is still here. When he grows tired, he pauses, looks around, and begins again. Children in Gaza cannot afford long sorrow, yet their hearts insist on remaining small enough to dance. In that insistence lies a story war cannot end. And now, enjoy the video 💃🕺. #WoundedGaza

74,862 views • 5 months ago

Satellite imagery reveals the tragic transformation of the Gaza Strip from a brightly illuminated city in 2023 into a completely darkened area in 2025, due to war, destruction, and the collapse of essential infrastructure. #WoundedGaza

Satellite imagery reveals the tragic transformation of the Gaza Strip from a brightly illuminated city in 2023 into a completely darkened area in 2025, due to war, destruction, and the collapse of essential infrastructure. #WoundedGaza

25,704 views • 9 months ago

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