Which shows one photo of a hospital in Gaza in chaos

“Red!” “Yellow!” “Vegetable!”

The air in Nasser Hospital is pierced by the screams of medical workers as they see patients arriving from a besieged city for the first time. Red is not good. It’s for the most seriously injured people, but even the other codes provide little comfort in a hospital stripped of the most basic necessities.

It is generally very difficult to find out much about the patients I photograph. In this case, the man carrying the medical forms would have been found under the rubble. What was his name? Don’t know. Did he survive? I do not know either.

But it seemed he had two things in his favor: he was a Green. And he was given a space, even if only on the floor. The hospital cannot afford to waste time on those who are clearly not going to make it.

It is difficult to convey the horror of Nasser Hospital today.

Everything is a blur. People run, people scream. Doctors and nurses rush from patient to patient. Family members are desperately searching for the missing, hoping someone can stop them and help them.

Every sense is attacked.

The smell is very difficult. It’s like burned skin, or perhaps charred tires mixed with the smell of blood and flesh. It’s a very strange and specific smell – and I’m afraid it will never leave me.

Earlier in the war the hospital was busy, but things seemed manageable. Then came a flood of refugees, while the Israeli army, which was preparing a ground invasion, warned civilians in the north to evacuate.

Recently I stood next to a doctor who said that before the war the hospital had capped the number of daily admissions at 700. “Today, on an ordinary day without shelling, we accept more than 2,000 cases,” the doctor said.

Like many hospitals in Gaza, Nasser has struggled to keep the lights on and equipment running due to fuel shortages caused by the Israeli and Egyptian blockade. Much-needed food and medical supplies are said to be trickling into the area, but when I ask Nasser’s staff about it, they say, “We have received nothing.”

And so children come in shivering with fever, and without paracetamol little can be done for them. I often pass by the children’s department, and it is always full.

This is all I can tell you. This is what I saw with my own eyes.