As one of the few remaining doctors in Syria, I have watched the “cessation of hostilities” that was agreed on in February crumble. Imperfect though it was, it offered Syrian civilians a brief respite from five years of violence. People had begun to recover during the truce, to get their lives back. But we are now seeing a level of destruction that will leave an already battered city in ruins.

It is hard to describe what it is like to live in Aleppo, waiting for death. Some people even pray for its swift arrival to take them away from this burning city. The bombardment has reached such ferocity that even the stones are catching fire. This week I helped bury a man whose body was so charred that no one could identify him.

Planes overhead vie to be the next to strike. Their targets are not fighters, but civilians — mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters whose luck has run out. That is what we live on now, luck. Everyone is terrified and we feel abandoned and alone.

Doctors and nurses are trying our best to put on a brave face for our patients. We know that for the community we serve we represent a last hope, the final defenders of life in this city. But we are also among the fallen. We have all lost medical brothers and sisters to barrel bombs and missile strikes, but we keep on working through the night. We have seen neighbors and friends die in front of us. We are exhausted, and there are not many of us left, but we continue our 20-hour shifts. What is most heartbreaking is when we have to choose which patients to save because there aren’t enough doctors to treat everyone. Our hospitals, though they are the targets of bombs, still overflow with the sick and injured.