Aid workers’ murders in Gaza did not start with Zomi Frankcom’s death

My friend “Amjad”, whose voice I recently shared, was murdered on Friday, March 29. He was shot in the chest three times by Israeli Defence Forces sniper bullets as he took some dawn air on his balcony, according to a mutual friend’s account. In a home just near the besieged Al-Shifa Hospital, he could not be reached by ambulance and suffered fatal bleeding. 

“Amjad’s” real name was Mahmoud El Hendy. Mahmoud was a father to eight children, a businessman who dabbled in cashew and almond nut imports to Gaza, and a trained nurse. He held a master’s in health administration and management from Emory University in the US. Mahmoud was working as the chief development manager at Al-Ahli Hospital in Gaza City, where he was particularly dedicated to improving diagnostic, treatment and care services for women with breast cancer.

A few weeks before his death, Mahmoud had graciously thanked me and my colleagues for checking in on his well-being via WhatsApp. He was hungry and consumed with where to find the next meal for his family. 

Mahmoud last messaged me on March 10:

I need to seek refuge in any country. My first choice is Australia. I need to start this process but I don’t know how. If you can help me and my family to find refuge in Australia to live this would be a great help. I can feel your love. All whom suffer are civilians.

I learned of his death via a Facebook post from a mutual friend, some short hours after it happened, later confirmed in an official WhatsApp message: “We at Ahli Hospital Management are deeply sorry and sad to inform you of the passing of our friend and colleague Mahmoud El Hendy on Friday, March 29, 2024, after an Israeli army shot him at his home…More than words can say, Mahmoud will be missed by all of us. Peace be with his soul and deep condolences to his family and friends.” On a trip to Gaza in recent years when I met Mahmoud, I walked a familiar path from the bustling Al-Shifa Hospital to my guesthouse accommodation, slowing as I passed an unassuming book and stationery store. The store window was laden with colourful Goosebumps teen horror novels by RL Stine. These were Arabic versions of those sitting on my childhood bookshelf at home, a little reminder of our sameness.

In the days since Mahmoud’s death, horror-like images have emerged of Al-Shifa Hospital — once the largest medical complex in the Gaza Strip — following the withdrawal of Israeli troops. Images show it now torched and confettied, and of the deprivation, torture, kidnapping and massacre of so many who provided essential healthcare in its walls and vicinity. 

This was not the first time that Al-Shifa Hospital has come under siege by Israeli forces causing enormous panic, trauma, injuries and deaths. Our healthcare colleague and co-author of this article, Dr Hammam Alloh, messaged from his father’s house near Al-Shifa on November 11 “The sounds I am hearing now are worse than in the action video games. Bombing hasn’t stopped for hours”. 

Hammam was one of Gaza’s handful of nephrologists who provided essential dialysis treatment for people with kidney disease. He was not sure then if he would be able to go to work that day owing to the security risks and the lack of electricity to operate his dialysis machines. 

The next morning, as I messaged, “I’m sorry. The scenes at Al-Shifa look devastating. Are you still at home?”, Hammam was killed by an IDF bomb strike on his father’s home, alongside his father, brother-in-law and father-in-law. He was 36 years old. He is survived by his wife and two young children. 

Many of us have been outraged this week by the news of aid worker Zomi Frankcom’s death, and the killing of her six co-workers as they drove in convoy in Deir el-Balah along a designated “de-conflicted zone”. My fellow health and humanitarian workers are especially reeling — it could have been any one of us foreign workers trained to provide aid, save lives and relieve suffering in conflict settings and trying to go about these caring tasks. It could have been me.

The truth of Zomi’s slaughter is despicable. The images of her bloodied Australian passport and lifeless body strewn across social media in real time — were we seeing these before her own family and friends? — is horrendous. Hearing of Zomi’s bravery and adventurous spirit from her grieving friends and family is utterly heartbreaking. 

My colleagues and I grieve for Zomi and all those killed in this attack, and we are outraged at Israel’s impunity towards safeguarding aid workers, humanitarian corridors and international humanitarian law. In this moment of awful grief, it feels simultaneously cheap and shocking that we have to so pointedly say it — all lives are equal. My friends mattered. We also know that this depravity did not start, and seemingly will not end, with Zomi’s death.

Israel has killed more aid workers — most of them Palestinian — in Gaza than have died in all countries combined this year. More than 450 healthcare workers have been killed. And all of it not only in full view of the world, but in all foreshadowing and warnings since October 7. 

In one of his last interviews on October 31, Hammam tells Democracy Now! interviewer Amy Goodman of his decision to stay and treat his patients rather than move to so-called “safe zones” of Gaza for personal safety:

And if I go, who treats my patients? We are not animals. We have the right to receive proper healthcare. So, we can’t just leave … You think I went to medical school and for my postgraduate degrees for a total of 14 years so I think only about my life and not my patients? I’m asking you, Ma’am. Do you think this is the reason I went to med school, to think only about my life? This is not the reason why I became a doctor.

He spoke on: “We are being massly eradicated. And you pretend to care for humanitarian and human rights, which is not what we are living now. To prove us wrong, please do something. Thank you.”

Hammam last messaged me the morning before he died: “Your shouting means a lot to each of us. Please keep it up.”

After my friends died, I sent them each a tribute via WhatsApp. I am still waiting for them to message back.