Despite the October 2025 ceasefire, violence in Gaza persists, with over 3,500 Palestinians injured since 11 October last year and 121 killed in June 2026 alone – the deadliest month this year. The term “ceasefire” has become meaningless as civilian lives remain disregarded.
MSF staff have faced direct harm: colleagues shot in tents, family members killed, homes destroyed, and people forcibly displaced. One nurse witnessed her four-year-old cousin’s death in an airstrike; another colleague was trapped in a vehicle under fire with his family; a third fled with his disabled brother, losing all his possessions. A widow whose husband, an MSF driver, was killed now lives near the “yellow line” and is awakened every morning by the sound of shells.
These are not isolated events but part of a broader pattern endangering humanitarian workers and civilians alike. Ashraf Afifi, an MSF radio operator, recounts being severely wounded by an Israeli quadcopter in June 2026.
Dear Friends,
I was sitting in my tent, like any ordinary Friday, if there is such a thing as an ordinary day during the genocide. My son Adam was outside playing with a kite. Suddenly, he said, “Dad, bullets are landing next to us.” I didn’t believe him. I went outside but couldn’t see anything strange. I thought he was imagining things.
I didn’t think much of it. I dismissed it as a one-in-a-million coincidence, nothing to fear. I went back to my tent. Suddenly, I heard a striking sound, like someone hitting a wooden table with a hammer. I came out of the bathroom and saw my wife looking frightened.
I looked around to see where the bullet had hit. Suddenly it felt like someone struck me in the side with a wooden club, and I heard the same sound again: like a hammer hitting a table. Immediately I knew I’d been hit. My wife was standing right next to me. She screamed. I looked down at my body. My side was covered in blood.
Since the beginning of the genocide, I have never ignored a sign of danger. If I sensed a threat, even a kilometre away, I’d take my children away from it, no matter the cost. But this time, I was careless. For the first time since the genocide began, I was careless.
I’d gone outside to confirm it was really a bullet. That was when I was hit.
“Don’t let me pass out. That’s the most important thing,” I said to my brother as we drove with my hand on my wound. I called my friend, our colleague Bilal Abu Saada. “I’ve been shot. I’m on my way to Nasser Hospital.”
In my mind, it was simple: I saw two holes in my side close to each other, meaning the bullet came from the side, went in and out, simple, nothing to fear. But the pain was severe.
My brother looked at me and said, “There’s blood on your back. Turn around.” I turned, lifted my shirt. “The bullet went in your back,” he said.
All my courage vanished when I realised the bullet had entered from my back and exited through my side. I immediately understood that this was serious, I started thinking about my kidney, my spleen, other organs. I began to feel numbness in my hands, numbness in my face. My breathing became difficult, and the world started going dark. My brother was slapping my face, “Don’t fall asleep!”
It was the longest journey of my life, like a road with no end. Even though I’ve driven it dozens of times, it felt endless, full of stops, traffic jams and obstacles.
The staff member said, “You’re wounded and making jokes?” I said, “You don’t know me. I make jokes at the worst times.”
Finally, we arrived at the hospital’s main entrance. Someone in front of the emergency door said, “Get out.” I tried to get out but couldn’t. The pain was horrific. “I can’t, I’m wounded.” I told him. “There are no stretchers,” he said. “Come on, try, I’ll hold you.” I wanted to scream, to shout: “What do you want, man? I can’t get out!” I started trying to get out. Suddenly someone brought a bed from the ER, and they wheeled me inside.
In the X-ray room, they placed my bed next to the X-ray bed and said, “Move onto this bed.” I thought they would lift me or help me. Instead, they left me to writhe like a snake, struggling to move, in severe pain. I thought: maybe this is intentional, to keep me active? Aren’t they afraid I could have internal bleeding?
Then they took me for an ultrasound. I’d never had one, but I remembered when my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, and the doctor used the same machine. I joked, “Boy or girl?” The staff member said, “You’re wounded and making jokes?” I said, “You don’t know me. I make jokes at the worst times.”
I had a CT scan, and when it was done, Bilal, the first person I had called, was standing over me. He said, “Enough of this pampering – get up.” Hearing that warmed my heart. I understood right then there was no serious danger.
That same night, we went back to our tent. I sat about two metres from where I was hit. I had imagined I would be terrified to go back to the place where I had almost lost my life. When the doctor told me I didn’t need to stay in the hospital, I said, “Thank God, I don’t want to stay here.” But honestly, I was afraid to go back to my tent.
Yet, after three hours, here I was, sitting in the same spot as if nothing had happened. The whole experience was surreal. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Ashraf Afifi
MSF Radio Operator in Gaza