At the centre of Gaza City, Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital no longer functions as a place of healing. It has become a silent witness to catastrophe, a space where the wounded arrive too late, the dead are too many, and sorrow no longer waits its turn. It is a morgue disguised as a hospital, where the only thing more suffocating than the stench of blood is the weight of abandonment.

Since Sunday morning, bodies have poured in faster than the living can be treated. Corridors are soaked in blood, stretchers carry children torn apart, and doctors walk with hollow eyes, forced to choose between the impossible and the unbearable. With no electricity, no supplies, and no time, medicine is replaced by prayer, and hope by ritual.

A mother brushes her son’s face and asks to keep his eyes. A boy with no arms waits quietly for someone who will never return. A father begs to trade places with his child. These are not scenes of tragedy, they are scenes of annihilation, repeated hour after hour, while the world watches in silence.

Al-Ahli is no longer a hospital. It is the beating heart of Gaza’s agony, a sacred space where grief is cradled, not by governments or relief convoys, but by the trembling hands of those left behind. In every hallway, on every stretcher, a story ends, and no one comes to write it down.

And still, the bombardment goes on. Still, the silence of the world remains louder than the screams.