In January 2024, five-year-old Hind Rajab and her family were attacked in their car by the Israeli military while trying to flee Gaza City. Five of her family members were killed instantly, leaving Hind and her fifteen-year-old cousin Layan Hamada trapped inside the car, which was riddled with bullet holes and surrounded by Israeli tanks.
Immediately after Layan called the Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS) for help, Israeli forces shot and killed her, leaving Hind stranded alone in the car, surrounded by her dead family members. Omar Alqam, PRCS operator, answered the calls from Layan and Hind. “Come take me,” Hind pleaded to Alqam and the PRCS. “I am afraid of the dark.”
For the next several hours, she stayed in contact with the PRCS dispatch center over the phone, pleading for help while trapped in the car with her dead relatives. The PRCS waited three hours for Israeli officials to give them permission to access the scene, only for Israeli forces to fire upon the ambulance soon after it arrived. Twelve days later, the dead bodies of Hind, her family members, and the two paramedics were found at the scene. The PRCS later accused the Israeli army of willfully targeting the ambulance sent to rescue Hind, even after the vehicle was cleared to travel along an agreed-upon route.
At the time of Hind’s killing, Gaza’s health authorities were already reporting more than 12,000 children killed since October 7, 2023. By December 2025, more than 18,500 children had been killed. Humanitarian agencies say this number far exceeds the total count of children killed across all conflicts worldwide in previous years.
Israel has also targeted health care workers and facilities, including ambulances and paramedics. Nearly 1,500 medical workers have been killed since the beginning of the genocide, many of them while wearing the internationally recognized protective emblem meant to ensure their safety. The destruction and siege of hospitals have made it increasingly difficult to provide medical care and basic assistance to Palestinians in Gaza. In early February, Israel banned Doctors Without Borders from operating in Gaza and the West Bank.
Health care workers face danger in the West Bank, too. Since 2023, two PRCS workers have been killed in the West Bank, one of whom was shot by Israeli settlers while in his ambulance. Additionally, many areas in the West Bank are under siege or closed by checkpoints; 849 roadblocks and checkpoints restrict the movement of people, healthcare supplies, and other essential services. In 2025, there were nearly 700 humanitarian access incidents and sixty-five reports of violence against personnel like PRCS workers. These are the conditions in which Alqam works. From the PRCS coordination rooms in the West Bank, he serves as a vital link between those calling for help and those risking their lives to deliver it. When he answers calls from the West Bank, rescue operations are made difficult by Israel’s restrictions, delays, and denials of permits for ambulances and medical staff to pass through Israeli checkpoints and military coordination points. When coordinating aid for calls from Gaza, closed checkpoints, communication blackouts, denial of ambulance permits, and delays in Israeli military coordination all prevent the PRCS from reaching those in need.
In February, The Progressive spoke with Alqam about his role as an emergency operator in the West Bank. He explains that for him, this work has never been just a job. He grew up witnessing—and experiencing—the oppression Palestinians face and felt called to contribute to humanitarian action that combines rescue, dignity, and preserving the collective memory of Palestinian’s experiences. “What keeps me going,” he says, “is the idea of being able to help someone facing hardship. The emotional toll can be exhausting and the strain heavy. A sense of responsibility remains stronger, along with the pride of working in the humanitarian field.”
The following interview was conducted in Arabic and translated to English. It has been edited for length and clarity.
Q: Did you ever wish, even for a moment, that another colleague had answered the calls from Layan and Hind?
Omar Alqam: In that moment, I never thought I would have preferred someone else to take the call. My focus was entirely on Hind, on how to help her and calm her down. Only later did I realize that her voice would stay with me forever, as a bond that asks me to keep telling her story to the world.
Q: Was there a moment during the call with Hind when you realized that it was too late to save her, and that the only help you could provide was to stay with her on the phone as she faced her death?
Alqam: There were moments when I felt that reality was harsher than any effort we could make to reach her and save her. I understood then that my role was no longer that of a rescuer or humanitarian worker, but simply that of a human being staying beside a child, trying to offer a small sense of safety in the midst of fear. It was a heartbreaking feeling, yet I could never have left her alone. Her voice was faint, almost a breath, wrapped in fear. Every minute on the phone with her burned inside me, like a pain I could not name. When the call ended, I felt my heart stop for an instant. That day showed me how far suffering can reach and how necessary it remains to stay human.
Q: After an experience like that, what motivates you to return to the dispatch center?
Alqam: What stays with you is not the event itself, but the voice, the details, the words. It is the suffering of the people that pushes me to go forward. Going back to work is never easy, yet it is necessary, because there will always be other people who need us, and we do not have the luxury of stopping or stepping away.
Q: What is it like to answer calls from Gaza in the West Bank?
Alqam: It’s a strange feeling. You feel close [to Gaza] in your heart, yet distant in reality. Every day we try to do what is within our reach, facing enormous limits that force us to make decisions that go beyond right and wrong. We move between what should be and what can be. There is what we know is right and necessary, the ideal that guides us, everything that should be done to save lives and ease suffering. And then there is what we can actually do, what the restrictions around us allow, the small actions still possible. We see clearly what must be done, we understand the need in front of us, but we can act only within a very narrow space. We do only what we are permitted to do. Forced helplessness becomes an emptiness that grows inside those who know what to do but cannot act.
Q: What is it like for rescue workers in Gaza?
Alqam: In Gaza, anyone who provides help does so knowing they risk their life every day. Offering and receiving care should be acts free from danger, as they belong to the basic rights of every human being. Ambulances, paramedics, and communication lines are constantly under threat. Still, despite everything, medical and rescue teams continue their work, because there is simply no other choice.
Q: What are the main challenges faced by the health care system in the West Bank?
Alqam: In the West Bank, obstacles have become part of our daily life: Checkpoints, delays, restrictions, and constant danger are everywhere. The problem is that these difficulties affect not only us but also the wounded waiting for an ambulance or any kind of help. Sometimes a single minute can make the difference, yet reality offers no mercy. Our harsh working conditions are the result of closed checkpoints, damaged roads, and bureaucratic rules that turn into permanent, indifferent barriers.
Q: How does rescue work continue when even protective emblems come under violent attack?
Alqam: There was a time when we believed that human feeling could be a shield [for civilians], that compassion and empathy could hold back at least some of the violence. Today the reality is different, yet we keep holding on to the idea of humanity, because if that is lost, what is left?
Q: How do you cope when Israel blocks rescue efforts?
Alqam: Knowing that someone needs help and that the distance between you is not measured in kilometers but shaped by forces beyond your control creates one of the hardest feelings to bear for those working in this field. It lingers for a long time and does not fade easily.
Q: Has this job changed your outlook on death?
Alqam: I believe it is impossible to get used to death, especially when children are involved. We may learn to keep working despite the pain, yet the pain itself never becomes normal. Every child who dies leaves within us a vast question about the meaning of humanity.
Q: Has the violence against rescue personnel transformed your role as an emergency operator?
Alqam: Today I feel that my role has two sides. I must keep doing everything possible to save lives while also bearing witness to what happens when rescue efforts are blocked or made impossible. In situations like these, choosing silence about what we see and experience does not mean being neutral. When silence hides injustice or prevents help from reaching people, it becomes part of the same injustice.
Q: What does Hind Rajab represent for you?
Alqam: For me, she stands as more than a memory. She is the voice of a child who should have lived an ordinary life rather than moments of fear before her death. [Her memory] carries [with me] an ethical responsibility and a constant reminder that what happens concerns real human beings rather than numbers. Every person who is killed carries a memory, a life, and everything that made them unique.