II lost track of time. The clock on the wall reminded me that it was already late afternoon. A barrage of gunfire and explosions continued in the distance. I had just finished my sixth surgery and was slowly drying my hands with a piece of cloth. My scrub suit and shoes had splatters of blood on them. I probably got them from the pregnant woman who was hit by a stray bullet in the neck, I thought to myself.

I was exhausted. I had been on my feet for almost nine hours already and my legs were aching. All I wanted to do was to eat a hot meal and sleep.

From somewhere, I heard a nurse saying that armed men were outside the gates of the hospital — but had respected our “no guns” policy. “That’s good,” I shouted to his direction, trying to sound cheerful. Hurrying to the empty office, I opened my locker and got a packet of instant oatmeal. I missed breakfast and lunch; if casualties would continue arriving at the hospital, there was little chance that I could have a meal on time that night. So, I slowly ate, savoring every morsel of my food. A big “EATING IS NOT ALLOWED HERE” sign on the wall was the only witness to how hungry I was. I stayed in that spot for what seemed like an eternity, fighting off sleep, mentally reviewing the cases I did that day.

Then I heard my name being called.

“Doctor, can you see the patients at the ER and tell us who’s going to surgery first?” There was urgency in his voice.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

I was immediately given a white doctor’s gown to put over my soiled scrubs. Following him outside the operating room, it was a moment or so before I realized the strangeness of the scene before me. There were at least a dozen people on the floor. More were lying on stretchers parked on both sides of the ER lobby. There were women with blood-spattered shalwar kameez, one of them pregnant, another staring blankly at the ceiling; men with tattered, bloody clothes; and a little kid moaning in pain, blood pooling where his legs should have been.

Men. Women. Kids. All were victims of violence.

I was shocked at the scene I saw. I walked gingerly between patients, swaying lightly, feeling light-headed. Wounded people were everywhere. And more were still coming in. I didn’t want to look and yet I had to.

Overwhelmed, I asked one of the local surgeons to accompany me to check patients’ injuries and their vital signs. We decided whom we should prioritize and wrote it on their respective charts. “This one goes to the OT first, this one’s next. The one with the bomb blast on the abdomen is next at room two. And tell the caretakers we need blood.” And on and on we went. Twelve patients needed immediate surgery; the rest could wait.

It was going to be a long night for all of us.

I walked slowly back to the operating room with a forlorn look on my face. I was startled when an old wrinkled man with a full beard and kind eyes stopped me, and uncharacteristic for an Afghan man, tried to touch my arm. With a pleading voice, he asked me in halting English, “Doctor, please. My son is out there. Could you please take a look at him?” pointing to the black zone.

Oh, no! The black zone is where fatally wounded patients who have very slim chance of survival are placed in the triage area. I wanted to send him away, to gently tell him to ask the assistance of nurses nearby. I was aware that I could not do anything more for his son — and unsure if I could stand the grief on his face if I told him about his son’s condition.

But I went with him, asking him what happened.

He was trying to evacuate. Hit by a bomb. No vehicle. Took them a long time to bring him to the hospital.

“He’s a nice man, doctor. My youngest son.” He was saying the words to me proudly, a hint of a smile on his face. I managed to suppress a gasp when I saw the man on the stretcher near the wall. He was young, in his early 30s perhaps. Multiple wounds of various sizes covered his extremities. Bomb blast. On his chest, a big gaping wound gave me a view to his partially exposed lung. He already had a glassy look in his eyes and had no palpable pulse. Trying to do something, anything, I adjusted his intravenous line. I gently covered his chest with hospital linen and, in a breaking voice, told the old man to excuse me and that I’ll ask one of the nurses to tend to his son.

The grateful look in his eyes, as if I had given his son a second lease on life, will haunt me forever.

TThe constant element of my nightmares was the roaring sound and panels of wood crashing down on us. And screams. Mine. Then me tripping and landing on the floor.

I vividly remember that moment. My ears rang and the wind was knocked out of me after the explosion. My heart was slamming against my chest. I was too stunned to move. Lying there stiffly, I became aware of a hand holding me, tugging at me.

“Get up! Come on.”

I slowly stood wincing in pain, trying to see him in the dark. “Stop pulling me!” I shouted. A thick cable was on my chest, restricting my movement. My body hurt, like somebody hit me with a lead pipe, yet I knew we had to get out of there. There was no time to waste.

I clumsily tried to free myself from the tangle of wires and cables, wondering where the others went. A moment before, while we were crouching near the wall waiting for the bombing to stop, a group of five kids and two women — each holding an infant — had joined us.

A hair-raising scream from a young voice shattered the stillness. Then there was another scream, of anguish this time. Running steps followed. Then, as if nothing happened, it was quiet once again. Oh, God, I said with dread. Somebody just got hit.

Freed from the cables, my colleague and I starting running out of the building. It was still dark outside. The outlying buildings were meters away and it was too dangerous to run in the open field and go there.

Where? Where? He seemed to be saying. He was looking at me, asking me which direction we should run. Doing a quick assessment, I realized that running towards the gate of the hospital, towards the streets, would be an unwise choice. We had no idea what’s going on beyond the gates. Then I saw the unmistakable slanting roof. The basement! Thank God.

“Left side. Going to the basement!” I shouted. We ran and jumped into the hole. To our horror, and big disappointment, we found ourselves inside the exhaust of the basement window. Surrounded with thick cement walls, about seven feet below the ground, it was covered only by a thin sheet of roof above. An abyss. A dark space. Dead end. The basement was on the other side of the wall.

We were like two mice who ran into a trap. Resigned to our fate, I silently reminded myself that we had done everything. If this is where we are going to die, then so be it. Settling down beside my colleague, I closed my eyes, hopeless, worn out, but feeling oddly safe and comfortable. Absent, dreamy. Must be hypoglycemia.

“It’s going to be alright. We will get out of here.” He was trying to reassure me but there was a hint of fear in his voice. I could hear his heart beating loudly. His breathing was fast. “Yeah, maybe,” I answered, trying to convince myself, too.

The wind was blowing to our direction, fanning the smoke towards us. Coughing, tears streaming from our eyes, we struggled to not inhale the smoke. The sound of crackling wood and leaves were the only other indication that there was a fire nearby. Bombs continued dropping in the hospital. At one point, the ground shook so hard we thought it was the end for us.

“Pray with me,” I heard him saying with terror in his voice. “Allah…” I only heard the first word of what he said.

“What? Say it again. Slowly.”

Patiently, like a teacher, he guided me through the prayer.

La…La, I repeated.

Ilaha…ilaha

Illa….illa

Allah…allah

La ilaha illa allah

I barely heard him from the cacophony of noise above us. In all honesty, I did not understand what I just recited but I prayed it with all my heart, holding on to any hope I was being offered. Maybe Allah, in his goodness and mercy, would keep us safe. “I am not Muslim but I pray for your protection. Keep us safe.” I silently begged Him.

At the same time, I was thinking of my mom. What would she feel if I was returned home in an urn, just a mound of ash? Worst, if I would burn to death here and nobody would recognize my remains. Unidentified. Missing for eternity. I shuddered at the thought. I wanted to spare her from that agony. But how? How?

There was silence between us, occasionally interrupted by a burst of gunfire or a big explosion that seemed far away. I could only see his outline in the dark but I knew he was deep in thoughts, too. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. Dog-tired and hungry, all I wanted was to sleep.