A doctor in Gaza bends over a child, wrapping a bandage that's already soaked with blood. The hospital generator, battered by daily blackouts, grinds out a last burst of energy before falling silent once again. Outside, the relentless thunder of shells creeps closer. Every tremor shakes the walls and nerves in equal measure-each blast could mean the end.

Across an ocean, in Ukraine, a volunteer ambulance driver nervously paints over the red cross on his battered van. What once promised protection now marks him for targeting: universal symbols are no longer shields, but warnings. In Sudan, a nurse sends one last message on WhatsApp-'We're surrounded'- and then vanishes into the fog of war.

None of this is accidental. These medical teams and fragile hospitals aren't collateral damage or the product of wayward bombs. Today's conflicts-whether in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, or Myanmar-feature the deliberate targeting of healthcare, transforming clinics, ambulances, and aid workers into bullseyes and bargaining chips. The brutality is not a rare exception. It's a grim strategy repeated across continents-a growing war not just on healthcare, but on humanity itself.

So, why does the world seem so numb? Much of it comes down to distance. Outrage, like warmth, needs proximity. The horror of an airstrike on a hospital in Rafah or Khartoum is a million emotional miles away from the humdrum safety of Paris, Jakarta, or Toronto. Most people don't know a Sudanese paediatrician, or a Palestinian nurse. These are unnamed, unseen others-their stories quickly fade into a background hum of suffering. No matter how high the statistics climb-like the more than 1,500 health workers killed in Gaza in under a year, or the record-breaking global tally of over 3,600 attacks on health care in 2024 alone-the numbers rarely spark outrage, because they rarely spark recognition. Where there's no connection, there's no outrage.

For those who follow global news, tragedy can feel endless, almost routine. Syria, Myanmar, Gaza-they're painted in the public mind as permanent war zones. Suffering in these places is so chronic, so repetitive, that it can seem perversely voluntary-an unlucky fate, but still a fixture. Health workers get praised for 'self-sacrifice,' but in truth, no ambulance driver signs up for another round of shellfire, no nutrition nurse expects to be executed, and no doctor figures her clinic will be the bullseye. The world quietly consigns these people to perpetual risk-numbing itself to the fact that every hospital bombing snuffs out lives, dreams, and the hope of tomorrow.

Then there's the language of officialdom-a chorus of bland, diplomatic statements. When leaders finally speak, their words echo in sterile monotones: 'We must protect the sanctity of healthcare'; 'All parties should respect international law.' Should. Must. Ought. Safe, bloodless verbs, meant to deflect action and emotional pain alike. Press releases are refined until all real emotion is quarantined, all accountability diluted. Agencies and governments avoid naming the culprits behind hospital bombings; nothing trembles, nothing condemns-just a polished fugue of the obvious. Outrage in official circles is treated as radioactive, best handled with 12-foot tongs.

So what does it take to break this numbness? Not just statistics or appeals to faraway rules, but stories that put real faces and trembling hands into the foreground. Our hearts crack open not for the abstract, but for the specific-a Syrian paediatrician bracing as artillery lands nearby; a Sudanese driver whose final message is barricaded by armed men; the love letter an aid nurse in Gaza folds in her pocket, unsure if she'll survive to deliver it. During the latest war on Gaza, the sheer regularity of attacks has shocked even seasoned observers: hospitals bombed, doctors and nurses targeted, paramedics shot at close range, and facilities besieged or destroyed. These incidents are 'integrated into conflict strategy,' not mere accidents.

Experts warn that the weaponisation of healthcare 'amplifies human suffering and disrupts all hope of recovery.' This year, the World Health Organisation reported that half of all grave attacks against healthcare happened in Palestinian territories alone; only 17 of Gaza's 36 hospitals were partially functional after months of siege and airstrikes, leaving thousands without vaccines or basic care. In Myanmar, similar patterns play out: attacks on clinics rose 15% in a single year, pushing total violence against healthcare worldwide to its highest ever level.

What makes people care is witnessing a story, not reading a spreadsheet. One image-a drowned child on a Turkish beach in 2015-shifted sentiment on refugees not because the crisis was new, but because it suddenly had a name, a face, and a family. Journalists, aid workers, survivors themselves-each short video clip, voice memo or diary entry can cut through noise and numbness. They can remind us that 'health attack' means not just ruined clinics, but ruined families, extinguished hopes, and communities stripped of their healers.

Scrolling past destruction is now a daily reflex; most of us sigh, blink back a tear, and move on. But we can retrain ourselves to pause. To learn just one name among the rubble, witness just one act of courage in a battered ward. Because the war on healthcare is, in truth, a war on all of us. Every time we shrug while paramedics are targeted, the line between safe and unsafe blurs. Today it's happening in Khartoum or Gaza; tomorrow, it could be down your own street.

Ultimately, the antidote to numbness is connection. Passionate outrage-loud, inconvenient, relentless-may be uncomfortable. But it's also necessary. If anything can turn back the tide of attacks on healthcare, it's our refusal to forget: our insistence that every life, every hospital, every healer deserves protection. The world is watching. The question is whether it will finally, fearlessly, learn to care again.

Dr Sunoor, Honorary President of The Himalayan Times and a specialist in leadership and crisis communication, writes in a personal capacity