The sound of sirens used to be a distant echo in Mariam’s memory, a reminder of hospital nights in her early nursing years. But in Deir al Balah, Gaza, that sound pierces through her every hour, not just as a call to action but as a warning of collapsing certainty. When the World Health Organization’s warehouse and shelter facility were attacked, Mariam was inside with her two daughters and her elderly father. They were supposed to be safe. That concept—safety—felt hollow in that moment, even in a building protected by the insignia of global health.
In parts of the world where “healthcare access” is a button in a patient portal, it’s easy to forget that wellness begins with something far more fundamental than prescriptions or meditation apps. It begins with shelter, stability, and the unshakable sense that someone will be there when you call for help. This is not an abstract point; it’s deeply tied to how the global health infrastructure either uplifts or fails the very people it claims to protect. And in Gaza, that failure feels visceral 💔.
Mental health support, already stretched thin globally, is nearly non-existent in places where survival becomes the priority over emotional resilience. A WHO psychologist stationed in Gaza for just three weeks recalled families who hadn't slept in days, not because they couldn’t, but because they didn’t dare. The impact of trauma on physical health is well documented. Cortisol levels rise, the immune system weakens, and chronic illness accelerates. It’s not poetic metaphor when we say stress kills—it’s chemical truth.
In wealthier nations, we debate the merits of private versus public insurance plans, comparing “international health insurance” packages that promise access to five-star hospitals in Zurich or Singapore. In war-torn zones, the debate is much starker. It’s not about tiers of luxury care, but whether you’ll get antibiotics before an infection turns lethal. One mother, displaced from the shelter, used honey and salt to treat her son’s wound for four days before reaching a field clinic. She had once studied nursing in Cairo. She knew the infection risk. She just had no other choice.
It’s not just the absence of care that erodes wellness—it’s the breakdown of the entire fabric around it. When the WHO’s facility in Deir al Balah was targeted, it wasn’t only a building that fell. A food storage unit collapsed, medical supplies were buried under rubble, and perhaps most tragically, the quiet sense of order vanished. That order is as critical to public health as any vaccine. Children need routines. Elders need quiet. New mothers need sterile space. These aren’t luxuries; they’re health essentials that are invisible until they disappear.
In more stable cities across the globe, the term “family healthcare plans” is tossed around during enrollment season. But imagine a family huddled in a shelter, the father with untreated diabetes, the mother recovering from childbirth, the child coughing with what could be pneumonia—but there's no thermometer, no antibiotics, no cot. That’s when the term “healthcare for families” becomes stripped of marketing polish and takes on its raw, literal meaning.
It was late evening when Dr. Yusuf, a volunteer with Médecins Sans Frontières, arrived at the scene of the damaged facility. He described seeing a child in a pink coat, clutching a crumpled inhaler like a doll. The child’s mother, a former teacher, simply asked, “Do you have clean water?” before she said anything else. Wellness, as much as we love to define it with spa retreats or clean eating plans, is so often just access to something as basic as clean water 🚰.
There are individuals in New York or London who spend upwards of $5,000 a year on emergency medical evacuation plans that guarantee a private jet airlift to the nearest trauma center. It sounds excessive until you realize that in Gaza, there’s no such thing. When the shelter was hit, several WHO staff and their families were among the injured, but no one came with a helicopter. They bandaged each other, used WhatsApp to locate nearby doctors, and tried to stop the bleeding with shirts.
The long-term health effects of this kind of repeated crisis are catastrophic. A six-year-old exposed to sustained trauma often enters adolescence with a dysregulated nervous system. Adults begin to develop cardiovascular conditions younger. PTSD manifests in everything from migraines to autoimmune disease. And yet, the global health narrative rarely includes these truths when discussing policy or funding. Even large donors tend to focus on disease-specific outcomes: tuberculosis rates, vaccination percentages, maternal mortality ratios. But the real wellness crisis is invisible and emotional.
And for those who believe that this level of trauma is isolated to conflict zones, it’s worth considering how thin the line really is. During the wildfires in Southern California, some upper-income communities experienced sudden health insecurity for the first time. Families scrambled for air purifiers, rushed their children to urgent care for asthma flare-ups, and lined up for bottled water. For a brief moment, even the insured, even those with concierge medicine, understood what it meant to feel exposed.
But the difference lies in the exit routes. In California, you can evacuate. You can call your insurer and relocate temporarily. You can lean on an employer-sponsored mental health program or seek private counseling with a trauma specialist. You can access continuity of care. In Gaza, those lifelines don’t exist. And without them, “wellness” becomes a mirage—a concept people are expected to pursue while navigating the wreckage of war 🏚️.
As someone who spent time in a refugee camp clinic in Jordan, I saw this reality up close. One morning, a young woman arrived with a newborn in her arms. She had delivered the baby herself two nights prior, in a tent, with only her sister’s help. The child had jaundice. The mother hadn’t eaten in over a day. She apologized for “showing up so early,” as if seeking help was an inconvenience. That moment, more than any medical textbook, taught me that health is never just about medicine—it’s about dignity, about feeling worthy of care.
So what happens when even the agencies meant to provide that care lose their sanctuaries? What happens when shelters become targets? The attack on the WHO facility was not just an act of violence—it was a blow to the very heart of international public health trust. If the staff of the world’s leading health body cannot find safety, what message does that send to the civilians they serve?
This is not just a geopolitical issue. It’s a human issue. And the ripple effects extend beyond borders. The global donor fatigue that follows such attacks means fewer vaccines, fewer deployments of emergency medical teams, fewer trauma counselors sent abroad. And that affects everyone. A breakdown in one part of the healthcare network can create pressure everywhere. This is especially critical in an era of global pandemics, where “healthcare continuity” is no longer just a local matter.
Even in the most elite circles—those debating the best private health insurance for expats, or the merits of longevity clinics in Switzerland—there’s a growing understanding that global health systems are interconnected. An outbreak in a neglected zone can spread. A trauma left unhealed can migrate through families, across generations. This isn’t hyperbole. It’s history. It’s science. It’s happening.
So perhaps the next time we talk about wellness—at a conference in Vienna or in the pages of a lifestyle magazine—it’s worth remembering the families in Deir al Balah. Their wellness was stripped from them, not by poor choices or lack of awareness, but by a system that failed to shield its own healers. If we truly believe in the integrity of global health, we must ask not just how we care—but whom we protect, and at what cost.
Because when the sanctuary falls, health is no longer a right—it becomes a privilege. And that’s when we all begin to lose.