The voices tremble before the words even come. Five doctors and two nurses, French and Swiss, who worked in Gaza since last November struggle to describe what they witnessed. Their accounts, published in "Le Monde", strip away the sanitized language of war, revealing a medical catastrophe where children’s bodies pile up in corners because there’s no time to bury them properly.  

Mehdi El Mellali, a 33-year-old emergency physician, still hears the drones. "A part of me is still there," he says. His colleague, orthopedic surgeon François Jourdel, speaks of bombs falling like earthquakes, six a minute, shaking the hospital walls as patients bled out on the floor.  

But it’s the children that haunt them most, the sheer number of small, broken bodies. Karine Hoester, a nurse with Doctors Without Borders, has worked war zones from Iraq to Congo. "I’ve never seen anything like this," she says. "Patients arrived disemboweled. When they died, we pushed them aside. More kept coming."  

A mother kisses her dead son’s forehead, then counts her surviving children, searching for the one who vanished in the rubble. A wounded father asks for two hours’ leave from the hospital, just enough time to bury his kids. These are not scenes from history books. This is Gaza now.  

The numbers are, incomprehensible, over 60,000 dead by UN estimates, but the doctors speak of deeper erasures. Israel cancels their re-entry permits. The world looks away. "I shout about amputated children," says surgeon Samir Addou, "and no one reacts."  

The most chilling revelation? The people of Gaza, even now, bear no hatred. "They just want the massacre to stop," says El Mellali. As Europe debates arms shipments and border policies, these medics return with a question that hangs in the air, heavy as smoke: *What does it say about us that we let this happen?