[Beirut] – In Arabic, “hanin” means nostalgia. Now that the bombs have stopped falling en masse on Lebanon, many, if not all, are clinging to that feeling. As Christmas decorations dot the streets as if a war did not exist, seeking a shared joy, nostalgia arises for the lives this war has destroyed and for the many it has extinguished when they began to shine.
Hanin carries that longing in her name. It is also glimpsed in her large eyes that appear insultingly young in the middle of a face ravaged by flames. “I was a loving mother in my beautiful life,” recalled this 31-year-old Lebanese woman, originally from Chester, in the Bekaa Valley, in the east of the country. From the burn unit of the Geitawi hospital in Beirut, she remembered how the happiness of the tiredness that comes with the emergence of a new life only lasted for five months.
The plane did not hit our building, but we were at home when the gas stove exploded, and everything caught fire.
Forty days ago, Hanin saw her first and only son burn to death. Afterward, she fell into a deep sleep. This first-time mother was at home when an Israeli attack broke into her neighborhood. “The plane did not hit our building, but we were at home when the gas stove exploded, and everything caught fire,” she told The Media Line with her legs bandaged up to the ankle.
My five-month-old baby died the same day we were burned, and my mother passed away just a week ago, but, thank God, I am much better, although I will need a little more time, and I will be fine.
“My five-month-old baby died the same day we were burned, and my mother passed away just a week ago, but, thank God, I am much better, although I will need a little more time, and I will be fine,” she admitted with a smile that revealed the beauty in her burned face. The nurse who has been with her all these days, Caren, still marvels at seeing her speak and move as Hanin spent her first 40 days in the hospital in a coma.
Now conscious, she remains in the same bed in the intensive care unit of the burn center at the Geitawi Hospital in Beirut. At least 75 kilometers separate the small village of Hanin from the Lebanese capital. In the entire country, there is only one hospital where people with serious burns can be treated.
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During the last two months, when Israeli bombings have killed 3,300 people and injured thousands more, the nurses and doctors at this university center have seen the worst cases from all over the country pass through those nine rooms, which were expanded to 25. “For them, this war is not over,” Tony Zeaiter, the nurse supervisor of the burn unit, told The Media Line. Many have suffered third and fourth-degree burns, with up to 95% of their body surface burned. They have been in the heart of hell.
The biggest problem right now after hospitalization is that, no matter how much we treat them and give them treatment, they don’t have a home to go back to. Many ask us if they can stay here in the hospital.
From there, it is very difficult to return. Those who do make it often have nowhere to return. “The biggest problem right now after hospitalization is that, no matter how much we treat them and give them treatment, they don’t have a home to go back to,” Zeaiter said. “Many ask us if they can stay here in the hospital,” he says, between steady beeps confirming that the few patients left –11 at the moment– are still alive.
“No matter how much we offer them psychological care and they speak to a psychiatrist on a regular basis, we can’t do anything to give them a home,” he confessed, dejected. Upon entering the unit, he happily greets a three-year-old boy who has lost a leg and has both arms burned. The little boy responds with a huge smile. “Of course, we are sad inside, but we smile in front of them because it is our job,” he added.
Dr Naji Abirashid, medical director of Geitawi Hospital, said that “25% of the patients we have received are children”. “It is a very high number for this type of wound,” he told The Media Line. Over these two months, most of the critically ill patients they have received had more than 60% of their body burned with “very, very serious” burns. “Unfortunately, they have a difficult prognosis that requires intensive treatment of between four and six weeks,” he admits.
Created in 1992 after the end of the Lebanese civil war, they are the only specialized unit to treat burn victims. During the explosion at the port of Beirut in August 2020, the hospital was completely destroyed. Despite its essentiality, the unit relies on donations that, amid an economic crisis, often come from abroad and in particular from European Christian organizations.
A day of treatment for serious burns at Geitawi Hospital costs an average of 750 dollars. The Lebanese government will reimburse half of the costs, although it is often late. The kindness of others provides the other half. “In a way, these treatments are a burden for the institution and for the entire health system in Lebanon because we also have our own patients and because it consumes the energy of the carers, the doctors, the nurses, and all the staff who take care of these patients,” says Dr. Abirashed.
Caren el Ouainaty, a 24-year-old nurse, has had no choice but to get used to it. “The noises, the photos, seeing them suffer…” she told The Media Line. “It has been two very hard months for us with very serious cases,” she said this young woman who has been working in the hospital for three years. “We don’t just change the bandages every 48 hours and give them medicine, but we try to smile, joke with the patients, talk, and share photographs,” she said.
When entering Hanin’s room, the complicity of having been practically her only company in recent weeks is palpable. “My husband works and comes to visit me when he can,” admitted this mother without a child. Hanin has returned from hell, but her time there will be forever etched on her skin.
I never imagined that being in my own home would put me at risk. On the contrary, I gave birth to my son so that we could be happy and live and have a good life. I never expected us to die.
“I never imagined that being in my own home would put me at risk. On the contrary, I gave birth to my son so that we could be happy and live and have a good life. I never expected us to die,” said Hanin through tears. “On the contrary, I wanted him to have a good life, and so did Mom because I was very attached to her, but this is a reality that we cannot escape,” she admitted.
Hanin plans to return to her village as soon as she is discharged and rent a house while they rebuild the one that Israel burned down. “I hope that all this violence will one day stop, but we can only dream about it because every few years, it comes back. Who can guarantee that if I have another baby, the same thing won’t happen to us, and I won’t lose it again?” she asked without waiting for an answer.