Antes de nada, debo admitir que no me ha resultado fácil
sentarme delante de una página en blanco y expresar lo que viene a
continuación. He necesitado tiempo y capacidad para ver lo sucedido sin que me
afectara emocionalmente. Ayudó, y mucho, la entrevista con el departamento de
investigación de mi organización, a lo largo de la cual tuve que hacer frente a
los hechos con pragmatismo, y recorrer mentalmente cada segundo de aquel
terrible día.
Abs, un pueblo no lejos de la frontera con Arabia Saudí y
rodeado de campos de desplazados, era considerado un lugar “tranquilo” cuando
me lo ofrecieron para trabajar allí. Así era hasta que, el 15 de agosto, los
saudíes bombardearon nuestro hospital, identificado visiblemente con el logo de
la organización y cuyas coordenadas habían sido compartidas con todos los
actores del conflicto con el fin de evitar “errores”.
Esa mañana había estado allí para mi reunión rutinaria con
el director y empleado del Ministerio de la Salud. Pero en el momento del
bombardeo me encontraba ya de vuelta en la oficina, a 5 kms, haciendo una
entrevista.
Oí el sonido del avión saudí, sobrevolándonos. Cuando oyes
el avión, quiere decir que no vuelan demasiado alto. Y cuando no vuelan
demasiado alto, es señal de que tienen el objetivo identificado y que pronto
lanzarán la bomba. Hasta entonces, las bombas apenas las oímos cuando ocurren a
una distancia superior a los 2 kms, pues el sonido del generador junto con el
del aire acondicionado, lo amortiguan. Así que continué con mi entrevista. Cuando
terminé y salí de la habitación para volver a mi despacho, pasé por la entrada
principal, fuera de la cual encontré a mas compañeros de lo habitual, mirándose
con caras de gran preocupación.
Aquí empezaron los que fueron los minutos más eternos de mi
vida. La primera noticia que recibí fue que habían bombardeado cerca del
hospital, minutos después (o segundos,
no lo sé), que lo que habían bombardeado era la entrada del hospital y poco
después, que la bomba había caído en el mismo hospital. En ese momento, todo se
paraliza a tu alrededor, es una experiencia que tu cerebro jamás ha tenido que
procesar anteriormente, nada te prepara para ello. No sientes miedo, ni pánico,
ni pena. No sientes nada. Sólo quieres saber, y creer, que todos están bien.
Las comunicaciones fallaban, los teléfonos estaban ocupados,
y sólo poco a poco (de nuevo, segundos que parecían minutos y minutos que
parecían horas) fuimos sabiendo sobre el estado de nuestros compañeros, tres de
ellos expatriados. Con los que conseguíamos hablar, sabíamos que estaban bien,
y esto proporcionaba una cierta calma. Pero había muchos compañeros,
trabajadores, muchos pacientes, enfermos, niños, mujeres, y muchas personas que
les acompañaban, de los cuales no sabíamos nada.
Cuando nos aseguraron que no habría nuevos bombardeos y que
no había peligro de nuevos ataques, un equipo fue desde la oficina al hospital
a analizar la situación. Sabiendo que
las noticias llegarían poco a poco, e impotente por no poder hacer nada por el
momento, entré en internet para saber el estado del suceso fuera de nuestra
zona y detectar también el momento en el que debíamos avisar a nuestras
familias antes de que se enteraran por otros medios. Twitter anunciaba que había una española muerta como consecuencia
del bombardeo. Si no fuera porque había oído hablar, minutos antes, al
coordinador por teléfono con la única chica expatriada que había en el
hospital, no me imagino la reacción. Pasó poco tiempo antes de que la notica
saltara en los medios internacionales. Habían bombardeado un hospital de MSF.
De nuevo, las leyes internacionales y el respeto por el trabajo humanitario
habían sido violados.
Lo que sigue después es una mezcla de rabia inmensa,
vulnerabilidad, necesidad de hacer algo, de trabajar, de estar ocupada, en gran
parte, sí, para no tener que pensar ni un solo segundo en lo que acababa de
suceder, para no tener que ser consciente, para no enfrentarte a ello. Porque
lo que acabas de vivir no es una película de acción, la serie Homeland o un video-juego, lo que acabas
de vivir es la pura realidad.
Al mismo tiempo, la gestión de las emociones se convierten
en una batalla fuera de tu propio control en los días que siguen. ¿Estás siendo
demasiado insensible al no llorar? ¿O demasiado débil cuando lo haces? Si de
pronto has perdido las ganas de conversar, o de entretener, ¿lo entenderán los
demás? ¿Cómo comunicarte con la familia manteniendo una correcta balanza
comunicación- comprensión? Culpabilidad también, porque no quieres hablar con
nadie que no haya estado allí.
Esa misma tarde supimos del fallecimiento de uno de nuestros
compañeros, cuyo cuerpo trajeron a la oficina. Junto a él, llegaron más
compañeros que estaban en el hospital en el momento del bombardeo, algunos
heridos. No hace falta explicar el ambiente que se respiraba, de pura
impotencia y desolación. Ver a estas personas, que normalmente rebosan energía,
profesionalidad y sentido del humor, en tal estado, le llenaba a uno de un
vacío indescriptible.
En ese momento no te cuestionas sobre la seguridad, el miedo
tampoco te invade. Todo eso viene días después, sólo cuando la adrenalina y el
cansancio te abandonan. Y aún así, no creo que una pueda ser verdaderamente
consciente de todo, hasta que no salga del contexto en el que todo sucedió. Es
el sentido de supervivencia, y también de responsabilidad, porque aún hay
trabajo por hacer, y porque si ellos están aquí, porque si esto es parte de sus
vidas, no quieres darles la espalda sin más.
Atrás hemos dejado a miles de desplazados que carecerán de
atención sanitaria, a personas con traumas psicológicos debido a los
bombardeos, a mujeres embarazadas con alto riesgo de perder a sus hijos durante
el parto y a muchos niños desnutridos para los cuales teníamos una sala a punto
de inaugurar en el hospital.
Pero me quedo con la fortaleza de nuestros compañeros nacionales que aún cuando les hemos ofrecido un mes de vacaciones pagadas, han trabajado y siguen haciéndolo, sin descanso. Me quedo con su positivismo que me llenan de ganas y energías para volver a retomar el proyecto. Me quedo con todo el trabajo hecho hasta ahora, los pacientes atendidos y las vidas que hemos salvado. Y me quedo con la cara de ese padre agradecido, cuando vino a despedirse de nosotros con su bebé en brazos, el cual había nacido en el hospital la mañana del bombardeo.
____________________________________________________________________
First of all, I must admit it has not been easy for me to sit in front
of a blank page and express what comes next. I have needed time and the ability
to see what happened in a way so that it did not affect me emotionally. It
helped, and much, the interview I did for the research department of my
organization, along which I had to face the facts pragmatically, and mentally go
through every second of that terrible day.
Abs, a village not far from the border with Saudi Arabia and surrounded by displaced camps, was considered a "quiet" place when I was offered to work there. That was until, on August 15, the Saudis bombed our hospital, visibly identified with the logo of the organization and whose coordinates had been shared with all the stakeholders of the conflict, in order to avoid "mistakes".
That morning, I had been there for my routine meeting with the director and employee of the Ministry of Health. But at the time of the bombing I was already back in the office, 5 kms away, doing an interview.
I heard the sound of the Saudi plane, overflying. When you hear the plane, it means it is not flying too high. And when they don’t fly too high, it is a sign that they have identified the target and will soon launch the bomb. Until then, one just hears the bombs when they fall at a distance of less than 2 kms, as the sound of the generator together with that of the AC, damp it. So I continued my interview. When I finished and left the room to return to my office, I went through the main entrance, where I found more colleagues than usual and whose faces showed great concern.
Here it began what were the most eternal minutes of my life. The first news we received was that they had bombed near our hospital, within minutes (or seconds, I don’t know), that what they had bombed was the entrance of the hospital, and shortly after, that the bomb had fallen into the hospital itself. At that moment, everything freezes around you, it’s an experience that your brain has never had to process ever before, nothing prepares you for it. You don’t feel fear, nor panic or sadness. You feel nothing. You just want to know, and believe, that everything is ok.
Communications failed, the phones were busy, and only gradually (again, seconds that seemed like minutes, and minutes that seemed like hours) we were learning about the state of our colleagues, three of them expatriates. Those with whom we managed to talk, we knew they were alright, and this provided certain calm. But there were many fellow workers, many patients, sick people, children, women, and many people who accompanied them, of which we knew nothing.
When we were assured that there would not be new shelling and no danger of new attacks, a team left from the office to the hospital in order to analyze the situation. Knowing that the news would come slowly, and helpless for not being able to do anything at the moment, I went on the internet to check the status of the event outside our area and also detect the time when we should tell our families before they found out from other sources. Twitter announced that there was a Spanish dead as a result of the bombing. If it was not because I had heard, some minutes before, the coordinator talking on the phone with the only expatriate girl who was in the hospital, I can’t imagine the reaction. It was not long before the event jumped in the international media. They had bombed another MSF hospital. The international law and the respect for the humanitarian work had been violated, once more.
What follows next is a mixture of immense rage, vulnerability, the need to do something, to work, to be busy, largely, yes, for not having to think even for a second about what just happened, for not having to be fully aware, for not having to face it. Because what you have just lived is not an action movie, the TV show Homeland or a video game, what you have just lived is the pure reality.
At the same time, managing the emotions becomes a battle beyond your own control in the days that follow. Are you being too insensitive for not mourning? Or too weak when you do? If suddenly you have lost the desire to talk or entertain, will others understand it? How to communicate with the family while maintaining a correct balance communication- understanding? Culpability too, because you do not want to talk to anyone who has not been there.
That afternoon we learned of the death of one of our colleagues, whose body was brought to the office. Together with him came more colleagues who were at the hospital at the time of the bombing, some of them wounded. No need to explain the atmosphere that was breathed, of pure helplessness and desolation. To see these people that are normally full of energy, professionalism and sense of humor, in such a state, filled oneself with an indescribable emptiness.
At that time you do not question security, fear doesn’t invade you. All this comes days later, only when the adrenaline and exhaustion leave you. And yet, I do not think that one can be truly aware of everything, until you are out of the context in which it happened. It’s the sense of survival and responsibility, because there is still work to do, and because if they are here, because if this is part of their lives, you do not want to turn your back on it.
Back there, we left thousands of displaced people who will lack health care, people with psychological trauma due to the bombing, pregnant women at high risk of losing their children during childbirth and many children malnourished for which we had a room about to open in the hospital.
But I'll take with me the strength of our national peers that even though they were offered one month of paid vacation, have worked and continue to, without a rest. I'll take their positivism which fills me with enthusiasm and energy to return and to resume the project. I'll take all the work done so far, the patients seen and the lives we've saved. And I stay with the face of the grateful father when he came to us to say goodbye with his baby on his arms, a baby who was born in the hospital the morning of the bombing.
Abs, a village not far from the border with Saudi Arabia and surrounded by displaced camps, was considered a "quiet" place when I was offered to work there. That was until, on August 15, the Saudis bombed our hospital, visibly identified with the logo of the organization and whose coordinates had been shared with all the stakeholders of the conflict, in order to avoid "mistakes".
That morning, I had been there for my routine meeting with the director and employee of the Ministry of Health. But at the time of the bombing I was already back in the office, 5 kms away, doing an interview.
I heard the sound of the Saudi plane, overflying. When you hear the plane, it means it is not flying too high. And when they don’t fly too high, it is a sign that they have identified the target and will soon launch the bomb. Until then, one just hears the bombs when they fall at a distance of less than 2 kms, as the sound of the generator together with that of the AC, damp it. So I continued my interview. When I finished and left the room to return to my office, I went through the main entrance, where I found more colleagues than usual and whose faces showed great concern.
Here it began what were the most eternal minutes of my life. The first news we received was that they had bombed near our hospital, within minutes (or seconds, I don’t know), that what they had bombed was the entrance of the hospital, and shortly after, that the bomb had fallen into the hospital itself. At that moment, everything freezes around you, it’s an experience that your brain has never had to process ever before, nothing prepares you for it. You don’t feel fear, nor panic or sadness. You feel nothing. You just want to know, and believe, that everything is ok.
Communications failed, the phones were busy, and only gradually (again, seconds that seemed like minutes, and minutes that seemed like hours) we were learning about the state of our colleagues, three of them expatriates. Those with whom we managed to talk, we knew they were alright, and this provided certain calm. But there were many fellow workers, many patients, sick people, children, women, and many people who accompanied them, of which we knew nothing.
When we were assured that there would not be new shelling and no danger of new attacks, a team left from the office to the hospital in order to analyze the situation. Knowing that the news would come slowly, and helpless for not being able to do anything at the moment, I went on the internet to check the status of the event outside our area and also detect the time when we should tell our families before they found out from other sources. Twitter announced that there was a Spanish dead as a result of the bombing. If it was not because I had heard, some minutes before, the coordinator talking on the phone with the only expatriate girl who was in the hospital, I can’t imagine the reaction. It was not long before the event jumped in the international media. They had bombed another MSF hospital. The international law and the respect for the humanitarian work had been violated, once more.
What follows next is a mixture of immense rage, vulnerability, the need to do something, to work, to be busy, largely, yes, for not having to think even for a second about what just happened, for not having to be fully aware, for not having to face it. Because what you have just lived is not an action movie, the TV show Homeland or a video game, what you have just lived is the pure reality.
At the same time, managing the emotions becomes a battle beyond your own control in the days that follow. Are you being too insensitive for not mourning? Or too weak when you do? If suddenly you have lost the desire to talk or entertain, will others understand it? How to communicate with the family while maintaining a correct balance communication- understanding? Culpability too, because you do not want to talk to anyone who has not been there.
That afternoon we learned of the death of one of our colleagues, whose body was brought to the office. Together with him came more colleagues who were at the hospital at the time of the bombing, some of them wounded. No need to explain the atmosphere that was breathed, of pure helplessness and desolation. To see these people that are normally full of energy, professionalism and sense of humor, in such a state, filled oneself with an indescribable emptiness.
At that time you do not question security, fear doesn’t invade you. All this comes days later, only when the adrenaline and exhaustion leave you. And yet, I do not think that one can be truly aware of everything, until you are out of the context in which it happened. It’s the sense of survival and responsibility, because there is still work to do, and because if they are here, because if this is part of their lives, you do not want to turn your back on it.
Back there, we left thousands of displaced people who will lack health care, people with psychological trauma due to the bombing, pregnant women at high risk of losing their children during childbirth and many children malnourished for which we had a room about to open in the hospital.
But I'll take with me the strength of our national peers that even though they were offered one month of paid vacation, have worked and continue to, without a rest. I'll take their positivism which fills me with enthusiasm and energy to return and to resume the project. I'll take all the work done so far, the patients seen and the lives we've saved. And I stay with the face of the grateful father when he came to us to say goodbye with his baby on his arms, a baby who was born in the hospital the morning of the bombing.
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