Yvonne Ridley writes:
My mother died last night. Joyce Ridley and her 98 years are gone forever, but definitely not forgotten by the three generations she left behind. Since I posted the news on Facebook — that’s how we communicate such sad news these days — I’ve been inundated with instant messages of condolence from friends and even strangers touched by her story, such is the drawing power of the internet.
Grieving, as the Palestinians are only too aware, is no longer an intimate, private matter. These last 15 months we have seen and watched them at their most vulnerable in Gaza.
It was during mum’s final hours that my mind wandered to Palestine and I began to realise how privileged and self-entitled we are in the West, taking life, and death, for granted.
Death is a sombre reminder that we are all powerless to stop what is unavoidable; it’s inevitable; a greater power reminds us that we have no ability to influence or change the situation. And so it was that I was able to accept the passing of my mother with the sort of stoicism we see every day from the Palestinians.
The Qur’an tells Muslims that The Almighty will test us with “fear, hunger, loss of wealth, health and harvests” but we must “Give good news to those who are patient and who, when they are struck by misfortune, say Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.” (Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed, to Him we return.)
Being an eternal optimist, as I watched and listened to the final, gentle breaths of Joyce Ridley, I realised just how privileged we were as a family to be able to gather in private, and share a safe space to offer comfort and support to our mother on her final journey.
In Gaza, though, we would not have been able to gather in a hospital, because there are no functioning hospitals left.
Israel has destroyed them all.
I wondered how we would all have reacted if Israeli soldiers had stormed into mum’s ward and ordered everyone out or told the hospital authorities to evacuate patients and staff within an hour? How would we have managed? Joyce was not conscious, and could not be moved.
Granted, she did not get the death that she had imagined, slipping away surrounded by her family in the comfort of her home. The doctors advised that she wasn’t strong enough to make the journey by ambulance to her home seven miles from Dryburn Hospital in County Durham.
The full horror of what must have confronted numerous families in Gaza hit me like a lightning bolt as I stroked her cadaverous hand. There is no way that she could be moved and yet, we know, that Israeli soldiers are not trained to be open to reason, compassion or excuses. They wanted hospitals cleared, evacuated and emptied at any cost.
Like many patients, mum had pain relief. Since everyone’s pain is unique — “Pain is a very personal thing,” a doctor once told a friend — we rely on medical staff to find that one opioid that helps us to manage pain with fewer side effects.
Joyce received morphine intravenously, in automatically measured doses, to reduce pain and to address concerns about breathing. Such end of life care has been denied to most Palestinians because Israel refused to allow any forms of humanitarian aid into Gaza, including medicines and painkillers. Even anaesthetics were blocked.
My elder sister described the pain that Joyce endured as she waited to be admitted into Dryburn. The triage system is a medical process that involves prioritising who needs emergency care first among the injured or sick people, waiting to be treated in a hospital’s Accident and Emergency (A&E) department.
I’m afraid that the UK National Health Service is in a shocking state thanks to a lack of government investment over many years, which is why A&E can be such a traumatising place as overworked doctors and nurses struggle to stick to the triage system. Unappreciative and over emotional relatives have their own personal priority which is, simply, and naturally, their loved one. As frustrating as it can be, the triage system does work and saves lives; it is essential to maintain some form of order in NHS hospitals.
And then I remembered the words of Dr Nick Maynard, a British surgeon at Oxford University Hospital who has volunteered his services for the last 15 years in Gaza. On 14 October last year, the Israeli army hit a new low by bombing a tented refugee camp in a so-called safe space at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital where he was on duty.
That Monday morning, Dr Maynard walked into the hospital in Deir El-Balah to be confronted by utter chaos. The triage system had broken down completely as relatives shouted loudly to grab his attention so that he would prioritise their loved ones. Amid the chaos he noticed the small body of a badly burned child who was barely moving, but was crying and making sounds as she lay alone on the cold, marble floor.
She had no one to advocate for her in this awful human auction where relatives bid loudly for attention. Dr Maynard picked up the little girl and moved her into a surgical theatre where he could assess her condition.
The sad truth was that no matter which hospital she had been admitted to, the diagnosis would’ve been the same. She needed end-of-life care.
Her facial skin, burned down to the cheek bones, was crisp and charcoal to touch. She was beyond anyone’s help no matter how much expertise or advanced medical equipment was available.
I don’t know this poor child’s name; no one does. The only treatment was end-of-life care but she was not in Dryburn Hospital A&E; she was in Gaza, in 2024.
The brutal facts are that this child, no more than six or seven years old, died after five agonising hours in the corner of a floor at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital. I squeezed my mother’s hand as though she was this child and stroked her arm lovingly. Mum was surrounded by those who loved her and although she wasn’t conscious we spoke soothingly to her and fancied that she could hear us. No such attention could be afforded to the little girl who left this life in hellish pain, abandoned on a cold hospital floor. Her parents had already perished in the fire which ended up also killing their daughter.
I’m not sure where this little girl’s final resting place is or if she is one of countless unknowns slipped into a body bag and buried anonymously. I already know where mum’s final resting place will be; she will be buried in a grave next to her soul mate, Allan Ridley, who died in 2007.
“Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them,” someone once said. I fancy that my mother Joyce Ridley (1927-2025) will live on for many years to come despite her gentle exit on Tuesday evening at 9.06pm. Sadly I was not there for her final hour but when I left her hospital room I knew that she was in the safe and loving hands of my family.
Even in the ceasefire, no one in Gaza will have the luxury of such a departure until all the hospitals are rebuilt and humanitarian aid flows freely.
I now want to find out the name of the child who suffered so badly in her final hours in Gaza. I will make sure that her memory will live on, and have already told Dr Maynard’s tragic story to hundreds of people. Now you too are aware that this child existed. We must all acknowledge her suffering and make sure that we never forget her, even if we do not know her name.
Joyce Ridley: 1927-2025
Joyce Ridley shot to prominence around the world as the fraught mother of journalist Yvonne Ridley when her daughter was arrested by the Taliban while working undercover in 2001 ahead of the US-led war.
Joyce became the darling of the British media when she delivered twice daily press briefings from her garden gate — against the advice of Tony Blair’s government — and criticised the impending war against the Taliban.
A fearless advocate for her journalist daughter, her briefings helped the Taliban to reach the decision to release Yvonne on humanitarian grounds after 11 days in prison. Her release was largely credited to the determined briefings provided by Joyce, a retired lecturer, from County Durham.
