Hope is stronger than fear
Canadians often ask us what difference hope can make in a world that feels increasingly fractured. Through the Hope Is Radical campaign, we’re sharing the testimonies of health workers who refuse to surrender to fear. Their daily work is the answer.
In Ukraine, hope is carried by people like Khassan El-Kafarna, a surgeon with Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF). He leads teams supporting local hospitals near the front lines in the eastern part of the country.
I can hear the steady sounds of artillery and bombardments outside the hospital walls. From time to time, this is punctuated by the sound of missiles, an explosion from aerial bombs being dropped on the city. Sometimes the explosions are very close. The front line isn’t far away.
Inside the operating room, I am in the middle of surgery when the lights flicker, then go out. For a moment, the only light is the beam of my headlamp, which I always keep switched on for situations like this. Other beams quickly flash, as my colleagues reach for their own headlamps and mobile phones. Surgery continues uninterrupted. We are used to this. I feel calm, knowing the team is prepared. Minutes later, I hear the hum of the generator, and the lights flick back on.
Across the country, energy infrastructure is being attacked by Russian forces. Millions of people are left without electricity, heat or running water. A blackout hits the hospital and the elevator goes out of service. We refuse to let that stop us. Our team carries surgical patients up a flight of stairs to the operating room. Then another. Then another. We always find a way.
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A moped whizzes past me on the street. I panic. Its motor sounds eerily similar to the drones used by Russian forces, which target faces and vehicles. If a drone hits you, you’re dead. I feel hunted, like prey.
We’re at the MSF staff house when bombing intensifies. Mobile phones ping as alerts come through. We rush to the shelter and the building walls start to shake. These can be scary moments. When I’m at the hospital though, I never feel afraid. I only think about the needs of our patients. It’s like moving into another universe, another reality.
A residential building is struck. Many people are injured: mass casualty incident. The road to the hospital has also been hit, and it’s too dangerous to travel. We can’t take that route for over a week, until anti-drone nets have been struck up overhead. Once used for fishing and tulip farming, these nets now encircle major roads throughout eastern Ukrainian cities.
Later, I receive messages from my Ministry of Health colleagues, expressing how much they wish the MSF team had been present to help treat the influx of wounded people. It’s hard, because I know we must take security seriously; even if we want to be there badly, we can’t care for patients if we’re hurt.
Our work matters. Often, there is only a Ministry of Health nurse working in the emergency room until the MSF team arrives. Our presence lets hospital staff know they are not alone.
I walk into the emergency room and the smell of blood, burnt flesh and massive quantities of antiseptic fill my nose. I can hear people searching for their loved ones, the beeping of machines, patients groaning from pain. And I see the fear in people’s eyes; usually those of patients’, but sometimes in the faces of medical staff, too. Though they are more accustomed to the chaos, my colleagues’ expressions can betray their horror and anxiety.
I dare to hope the war will end. But instead the front line shifts, and we are forced to leave a hospital that is swallowed by the fighting. These are the saddest moments. I am attached to the people, the staff. They are my friends.
Despite the pain and sadness, we keep going. We know the next hospital needs our support. We wipe our tears and start again. We always start again.
This is our act of defiance.
In a world that can feel overwhelming and cruel, I understand why people may feel powerless and hopeless. But hope lives in our daily choices to show up and act, again and again. It exists in our refusal to accept suffering as inevitable.
My colleagues and I are profoundly affected by the war. And yet I witness how they show up to care for our patients every day. I watch a nurse comfort a child, and I see the child’s shoulders relax, a smile cross their face. My heart swells with pride. This is our collective purpose.
For the moment, the sound of bombardment and artillery is farther away. Our team gathers around the kitchen table and the comforting smell of coffee and tea fills the space. Someone makes a joke. Someone remembers the time before the war. We let ourselves laugh. For a moment, we let ourselves believe in something better. Here, hope is radical.
