About a year ago, I went to Gaza with MedGlobal, a medical charity, to work with Gazan doctors. We hoped to share our professional experience and fill in where there was greatest need. Our Palestinian colleagues welcomed us.

Even then, life in Gaza was very different from here. Basics such as water, food and fuel were limited, as were certain medications and medical equipment that allowed us to do our jobs — albeit, in a restricted capacity. There were no excesses, and every decision was thoughtful and holistic. The medical staff members were not only deeply committed to their professions, but they also knew how to do a lot with a little. So, while I presumed our expertise might be useful to them, I was not prepared for all they had to teach us — about resilience — professional and personal.

Life in Gaza seemed difficult and beautiful. The coastline was stunning, and the beach was full of families. I watched kids climb up rocks and shout to their friends as they cannonballed into the Mediterranean Sea, their friends roaring in laughter as the water splashed back on them. The marketplace was bustling, and the shopkeepers were eager to share a cup of coffee and their commentary on global events, which was undoubtedly followed by a dinner invitation. Hospitality is rooted in Palestinian DNA.

As is the ability to quickly adapt. You might be sitting in a cafe, and suddenly the power goes out. But no one seems to notice. They carry on with their conversations, accustomed to such outages and shortages. It is worth noting that even before the war, the Gaza strip was one of the poorest regions in the world, with two-thirds of its 2 million citizens living in poverty.

Now, as I check on colleagues in Gaza, many of whom worked at al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City, I’m filled with despair. When will my messages get through? Why haven’t they responded? Are they OK? And then, if they confirm their safety, I’m caught in a spiral of shame and frustration because I cannot lift them out of the hell they are enduring.

Unlike a natural disaster, the perpetual threat of another bomb means I need to send a message every day or two — to keep checking in. Speaking with colleagues in Gaza is agonizing. They describe how al-Shifa was packed with injured patients, with no space left to treat them, and every inch of the hospital occupied. It was even more painful to hear how the hospital was rendered inoperable when the Israeli military raided in November. Many doctors and patients had to flee on foot. Those who could not weather the journey were left to die a slow and painful death.

I had expected that doctors, nurses and hospitals would be spared from the intense bombardment in Gaza, but there has been a catastrophic loss of the health care workforce, as the Israeli military has killed more than 300 medical professionals. Palestinians will feel these losses for years to come, and Israel’s bombing of a Gaza City medical school makes them worse — as does a recent World Health Organization report identifying a surge of infectious diseases ravaging overcrowded shelters. This public health nightmare is compounded by the fact that, as of late December, only 13 out of 36 hospitals were partially functioning, and all were in desperate need of essential medicines.

I am a descendant of the Palestinian diaspora. My parents immigrated to this country in the 1980s in hopes of a better life. I, like many Palestinian Americans, have a deep sense of survivor’s guilt, knowing what is taking place in Gaza. Social media platforms are rife with videos depicting the depth of anguish of Gazans.

We have watched the grieving mother asking for more time with her slain child, a grandfather hugging his granddaughter tightly and saving her earring as a memory, children begging their dead mother to wake up, and a mother arriving at the hospital after an airstrike searching for her son and describing his curly hair.

Every day, a new gut-wrenching video captures the personal tragedy of a Gazan. I hope to amplify their stories, and advocate on their behalf by demanding President Joe Biden’s administration call for a permanent cease-fire and facilitate the unrestricted entry of humanitarian aid into Gaza.

Dr. Thaer Ahmad is the global health director and assistant residency program director at Advocate Christ Medical Center. Ahmad serves on the Acute Care Committee for MedGlobal, a nongovernmental humanitarian organization. He joined MedGlobal’s short-term medical intervention in the Gaza strip.