A severely burned patient at the Burn Center of the Lebanese-Geitaoui Hospital. (Credit: Olivia Le Poidevin/L'Orient Today)
“I flew through the air; my hair was burning, and I tore it out. From a distance, I saw my husband and thought, ‘He’s fine, no big deal.’ He was dead. It took them six hours here at the hospital to remove the stones and dirt from my skin. I have no husband anymore, no house, just a three-year-old son. And as you can see, I have something in my head that stops me from speaking normally. That’s all I can tell you.”
This young 30-year-old woman, with half her face burned, has lost her right eye. “I no longer have the strength to remember,” she adds softly. She is being treated in Lebanon’s only specialized burn unit, at Lebanese-Getaoui Hospital. Her sister sits next to her, silent, hands folded on her knees.
Leny Mehanna, head nurse at the burn center since 2020, is one of those who embodies the humanity of this country. Her eyes, having encountered so many others filled with pain, reflect only calm and urgency. When she enters the burn unit, light seems to emerge on the patients’ faces, sometimes even a smile. “The hardest thing for burn victims,” she says, “Is the fear of what comes after. Everyone asks, ‘What will I look like?’”
In the room next door are two teens, aged 15 and 16, with burns on their legs and arms, but their faces spared. They are both strikingly handsome. The younger one greeted my arrival with a trace of irony. Another person, he seemed to think, who wants to know what happened to me. He sums it all up in a short sentence: “My father, my mother and my five brothers are dead.” His piercing gaze into mine conveys his unspoken message: Do you think there’s anything more to add?
In the room of a one-and-a-half-year-old girl, a small white parcel lays on the bed, like a lifeless body. This is Ivana — she completed us to write this, not as an article, but as a cry for help. This tiny child, burned and wrapped in bandages from head to toe, her arms outstretched, is gently touched by her mother’s trembling hand. The only part of her left uncovered is a small section of her face — her eyes, nose, and mouth. For a moment, her gaze seemed frozen, not asking for anything, not expecting anything, not complaining. Then, ever so slowly, her gaze shifted inside its hollow. Barely visible, it stirred the deepest parts of humanity, creating an angelic presence that seemed to say: I am nothing. I can do nothing. But I carry the weight of what words can no longer express.
Created under the auspices of the Raoul Follereau Foundation, the burn center provides all stages of care — from resuscitation to surgery — which can be lengthy. The center also offers training programs for staff from other hospitals. During our visit, trainees from a hospital in Nabatieh, in southern Lebanon, were present.
Two exceptional individuals — a doctor, surgeon Pierre Yared, and a nun, Sister Hadia Abi Chebli — have co-directed the Lebanese-Getaoui Hospital since 2010. Together, they have weathered and overcome a series of economic and health crises, including Covid-19. When the Aug 4, 2020 port explosion occurred, the hospital, which had been painstakingly paying its debts, was partially destroyed. Private Lebanese donors invested in its reconstruction. Armed with unwavering faith, a will of iron and her rosary, Hadia is petite yet determined to move mountains. After leaving her family home in 1979 at the age of 17 to join the Lebanese Maronite Order, she trained as a nurse, earned a master’s degree in business management and a bachelor’s degree in theology from Saint Joseph University, all while studying English. With the support of committed doctors, she was instrumental in setting up the Burns Center at the Lebanese-Getaoui Hospital. Several donors contributed to its success. Today, she fights with all her strength to keep it going. The influx of patients, the near-financial impotence of the Health Ministry and the drop in regular income due to the bombings (the hospital’s attendance has halved) have left the situation extremely critical. Getaoui is the largest hospital affiliated with the Lebanese University, and it plays a vital role in public medical education, crucial for the preservation of the state — what remains of it.
It’s an understatement to say the burn center deserves to be supported, to continue its work. Its monthly cost is $496,000, excluding doctors’ fees. Its operation urgently requires aid. This is an appeal, particularly to the Lebanese diaspora. Their contribution can provide healing from afar to a Lebanon that is burning. Every contribution, no matter the amount, will make a huge difference.
“When burn victims arrive at the hospital, their wounds are often infected, eaten away by worms,” says Hadia. Mehanna explains that our sense of touch covers the entire body; the skin is our envelope, our shell. When that barrier is breached, the whole body is threatened. The pain reaches the brain. "I believe it’s the worst kind of pain," she adds.
Looking at the torn surfaces of these bodies brought thoughts of the country: While the South burns, while the Bekaa burns, all of Lebanon is burning. It is its skin that is in danger. Mohammad, Ivana’s father, was asked if he had a message to share. His response was a call for unity: “We Lebanese must be united and stand together like the fingers of a hand.”
Donations to the burn center at Lebanese-Geitawi Hospital can be made by bank transfer.
- Directly to ‘La Congrégation des sœurs maronites de la Ste Famille - Hôpital Libanais Geitawi.’
Address: ACHAFIEH-GEITAWI ; RUE GEITAWI ; IMM HOPITAL GEITAWI
IBAN: LB87 0103 0012 1014 7701 2520 1012
- Or through the ‘Œuvre d'Orient Foundation’ website, which transmits all donations to the hospital and issues a tax receipt:
https://secure.oeuvre-orient.fr/soutenir-sud-liban (Important: please specify that the donation is for the Burn Center of the Lebanese Geitawi Hospital in the ‘comments’ section)
This article originally appeared in French in L'Orient Le-Jour and translated by Tasnim Chaaban
