On the last night in Gaza, Ye Shenghui held up a flashlight with red light and waved it desperately in the rain of bullets.
That was a medical distress signal under international humanitarian law.
But when the headlights of the military armored vehicle hit his face, he suddenly understood.
The words written in the book can never measure the hell on earth.
Nineteen-year-old Fatima's shoulder was crushed by a large-caliber bullet, and she only called "Mom" before she died.
The blood hole in Samir's skull was still bubbling red and white liquid, and the plastic bottle with the five-petal flower on it rolled into the pool of blood.
Then darkness fell.
Open your eyes again, it's the Song Dynasty.
There was no artillery fire, no red crescent, no half-sung Arab ballads.
But he soon discovered that human life here was equally worthless.
A plague wipes out half a village, a war fills the official roads with refugees, and a government official can decide your life or death.
He climbed out of one hell and fell into another.
He had studied medicine, spent 40 minutes digging through concrete slabs in the ruins with his bare hands, and snatched a dying child back from the hands of death.
But in this era, clean water is a luxury, anesthetics are a legend, and the word "doctor" still carries the mystery of an alchemist.
What can he do?
What's even worse is that he no longer believes that "it will work if you do it".
In Gaza, he wore a body armor, held a red crescent moon, and believed in international law. What was the result?
Fatima didn't wait for justice until her death, and the boy Samir said "wanted to invent a hemostatic drug when he grows up" probably won't be able to wait either.
He held the red light with all his strength, but no one came.
