The dead and wounded lay scattered around the street. One man, with a fist-sized black hole in his stomach, lay still in a state of shock. Nearby, a shirtless teenage boy in a pool of blood screamed in pain. Further away another man was unconscious, his right leg seared off just below the knee and placed next to him by a good samaritan. Civilians moved around frantically, shouting in panic and unsure of what to do.
“This is a video I took yesterday when a bomb exploded in Deir Al-Balah,” nineteen-year-old Mohammed Kassab told me. “All my thoughts and dreams are to be a doctor, so I can treat those injured in the war.”
“Then instead of filming them,” I said. “why don’t you help them? You know it often takes a long time for paramedics to arrive, and you keep complaining about Israel ruining your chance to go to medical school. You can learn to administer first aid and save people from dying.”
Mohammed was still young enough to think he needed someone’s permission to take action. He didn’t realize he could take the initiative on his own. He told me everyday about his desire to help his people, so I started giving him advice from my Wilderness First Responder training. It turns out their focus on medical care in remote, low-resource settings fits perfectly in Gaza, where even the hospitals run out of medical.
“People often bleed out from traumatic injuries. Learn how to tie a rope to use as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding,” I said. “Always carry a piece of rope with you for that purpose. If you don’t have one, a belt will do.”
“Thank you, my friend, for these tips,” Mohammed replied. “I have never found anyone to advise me like you. Thank you really! 
”
It’s amazing how simple encouragement can make a difference in someone’s life. I had met Mohammed three months before in May 2024. He was desperately trying to raise money for his family. He sent me TikTok videos, Instagram posts and other links to promote his GoFoundMe, but like many refugees he felt embarrassed about seeking charity.
“Before the war, we did not ask for money like this. We were living a decent life. My father, Khaled, was a policeman for the Palestinian Authority. I was planning to start pre-med. But we are now without homes, without a homeland, without anything.”
The family had been forced by the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) to exchange their home in Khan Younis for a tarp and twine shelter in Al-Mawasi in December 2023. By February they were displaced again. This time to a proper refugee tent in Deir al-Balah where they remained until the January 2025 ceasefire.
Mohammed is the second oldest of six children. He’s well groomed and neat in appearance like the rest of his family—a remarkable achievement for people living in tents with limited access to running water and electricity. He has one brother and four sisters—all, like their forty-something parents Khaled and Tahrir, struggling to stay alive. The youngest, a baby girl named Massa, has a full head of luxurious reddish-brown hair, honey-brown eyes and a beaming smile. In photos she’s often wearing a stylish magenta headband or posing for the camera. Sisters Mayar, age nine, Mona, age thirteen, and brother Malek, age sixteen, are the next oldest. The most senior is Mohammed’s sister Malak, age twenty-one, who was looking forward to her wedding until the Israeli invasion ruined her plans. She was forced to marry in a tent. Though her wedding dress was buried under the rubble, Malak was still able to find a plain white dress for the photo shoot at her grandfather’s house—one of the few homes that still stands today. The ceremony and reception were muted—they didn’t play music out of respect for the martyrs and the wedding cake was a plate of date-filled Palestinian cookies called Ma’amoul. Only the wedding bands survived the evacuation and eventual destruction of their homes, their neighborhoods, their lives.
Mohammed informs me when friends and family die.
“My friend Ramzi was martyred in February 2024. He was trying to find a passageway to get his family to safety, but found himself near a group of young men who the IDF targeted with a bomb. He was burned from head to toe. When I found out, I went to Nasser Hospital, and transported Ramzi’s body to the cemetery where we buried him. It took over two hours to dig his grave with my uncles. I was very sad about what happened.”
Digging a loved one’s grave must be the most grievous of tasks.
“My cousin Ali was seriously injured in July 2024 in a bombing in Deir al-Balah. He had a traumatic brain injury. We went to the American Hospital and watched him die. We cried a lot. Then his father Bilal carried him to the cemetery and buried him.”
Mohammed sent me a video of Ali’s funeral. They had bought a ready-made grave. It was only a few feet deep and lined with concrete blocks. The dead boy’s face had an angelic quality to it, like he was at peace, like he had transcended the horror around him. It reminded me of how my dad looked when he died.
Death was attributed to inanimate objects as well.
“Two months ago, we received news that our house had been blown up. My father and I walked to Khan Younis and found our former home completely demolished. We searched for anything valuable, but all we found were some dolls and clothes for my brothers.”
A couple of weeks after Mohammed showed me the bombing video, I asked him if he had started volunteering at a hospital or medical clinic.
“The situation here does not allow that,” he told me. “My father wants me to open a stall to sell supplies, so we can earn a living.”
How does one earn a living in the middle of a genocide?
“When you are not working at the stall, spend your time helping people whenever you get the chance,” I replied. “Whether it’s repairing a tent or digging for survivors in the rubble, take the opportunity to help. Talk with as many medical professionals as you can. Maybe you could ride with them in an ambulance someday or become an orderly. It’s a long hard struggle, and you might even die performing your duties, but at least you would live knowing you were doing your best.”
“Yes, I will definitely do that,” he said. “We struggle to survive and also to help each other.”
“Study battlefield first aid as much as you can,” I continued. “You can find combat trauma training PDFs online to download. There are also YouTube channels which will show you how to deal with burn, blast and firearms injuries”
“Of course, my friend! Every day I watch videos of experts in the field of medicine…and follow the advice they give. 
”
Whenever I asked Mohammed how he was doing, he often responded with the latest massacre that had occurred.
“Last night we woke up in the middle of the night to the sounds of very violent bombing. 
More than fifteen martyrs were recovered from the bombed areas.”
There were a lot of forced evacuations that summer. The IDF would declare an area unsafe and drop leaflets giving people a day or two to leave. It was heartbreaking to watch the videos of familes running in terror to get away while carrying all they could on their backs. Even children pulled pieces of luggage behind them. Huge traffic jams were created at odd hours of the night as the sea of humanity struggled to move in the chaos. Those unable to walk died in the subsequent battles if their family could not afford to pay for a taxi or donkey cart to move them. Sometimes the IDF even bombed the refugees as they were fleeing. I told Mohammed that “the people should stop running and die with dignity where they were instead of being herded like animals to the next refugee camp.”
“Thank you, my dear friend, for your concern and everything you do for the families here. You are truly a wonderful person. I hope everyone is like you.”
I thought about Ukrainian president Zelensky being accused of lacking gratitude at the White House. I wonder if Donald Trump or JD Vance had ever thanked anyone like Mohammed had thanked me.
After the ceasefire came into effect on January 19th, 2025, the family moved back to Khan Younis and rented an apartment they couldn’t afford. Mohammed’s father got his policeman’s job back, but he only makes $700 a month. Rent is $300, while groceries are astronomical ever since Israel sealed the border and cut off the electricity in early March.
On his birthday in February, Mohammed posted a photo of himself in a leather jacket with a faux fur lining on the hood. It was his first Facebook post since October 7th, 2023.
On March 18th, Israel broke the ceasefire with a wave of bombings that killed over four hundred people, the majority of whom were women and children. One bomb landed next to Mohammed’s apartment. In the bedroom facing the blast, a security window made of metal and glass was blown in, but luckily a bulky desk shielded Mohammed’s mother and her baby daughter from shrapnel. Mohammed posted a video of the aftermath on social media to illustrate the family’s brush with death and praised God for letting them live.
The next day I read a BBC article about a Palestinian father who lost three sons in the latest air strikes on Gaza. At least one of the boys wanted to be a doctor like Mohammed. The day after that the IDF invaded Gaza. But this time there was no warning, no leaflets, and so still, like Mohammed, after almost eighteen months of war, no one in Gaza has any idea what will become of them or those they love.