I’m one of 22,000 Gaza patients waiting for evacuation

As I write this, I am lying in al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City, receiving what doctors call treatment for my kidney disease. In truth, I am not sure if it can really be called treatment or simply a way to delay the worst. I am just one of many Gaza patients waiting for evacuation, hoping for a chance to survive.

Because of severe shortages of medicines and equipment, doctors here make decisions based on what they can find, not what patients actually need. I am one of those cases. The drugs and tests required for my condition are not available in Gaza at the moment.

After reviewing my latest tests, my doctor told me my condition has worsened, and I must be evacuated urgently. He plans to refer me to the list of 22,000 Palestinians in pain who are still waiting to leave Gaza for essential medical care abroad. Like them, I have become one of the Gaza patients waiting for evacuation, unsure if help will arrive in time.

My body, like this hospital, is operating at the bare minimum.

Life was never easy, but before the war, there was at least a functioning healthcare system, even if it struggled. When certain medicines or tests were unavailable in Gaza, I could travel to the West Bank for treatment. In 2023, I was treated at a hospital in Hebron, with costs covered by the Palestinian Ministry of Health. I returned to Gaza just days before the war started.

In the two years since, proper medical care has become almost impossible. For many chronically ill Palestinians, our bodies have turned into another front line in the conflict.

Airstrikes destroyed hospital after hospital. Facilities were raided, burned, and stripped of equipment. Doctors and nurses were killed or forced to disappear. Patients in critical condition were pushed into the streets with nowhere to go.

Early in the war, the nephrology department at al-Shifa, where I had long received treatment, was badly damaged. Authorities tried to restore it, but it was hit several times. Today, it barely functions and lacks most of its essential equipment.

In May 2024, the Rafah border crossing between Gaza and Egypt was closed after Israeli forces took control. Essential medicines quickly ran out, including basic painkillers and antibiotics.

The tablets I need—methyldopa and amlodipine, taken twice a day—are now impossible to find.

At the same time, water treatment plants and pipelines were destroyed, cutting off clean water. We were forced to drink contaminated well water, which only worsened my condition.

My health declined slowly but painfully. Without regular tests and medication, my body began to show warning signs. Severe swelling spread across my body. I could barely move and felt constant exhaustion. I lost 24 kilograms because of hunger and weakness. My collapse is the direct result of a healthcare system that was destroyed and prevented from helping its patients.

Illness does not wait for war to end. Kidneys do not understand politics or border closures. A human body cannot survive on dirty water and a piece of bread.

When I heard the Rafah crossing had reopened last week, I felt a small sense of hope. But that hope faded when I learned that a relative of mine, who was not even sick, managed to leave because of “connections.” Only five critical patients were allowed out on the first day. Once again, the Gaza patients waiting for evacuation were left behind.

This is the harsh reality for the sick in Gaza. We are denied proper treatment at home because hospitals have been destroyed, and then we are told that connections, not medical need, decide who can leave for care abroad.

I have no links to international organisations or authorities. I am simply a patient whose body is slowly failing.

I do not know if I will get out in time. Hope requires time, and time is running out for me.

My son Zakaria is the reason I keep fighting. I gave birth to him after a long and difficult medical journey, knowing I would never be able to have another child because it would cost me my health.

In Gaza, the human body has become a record of survival rather than a vessel for dreams. Doctors are no longer just medical professionals; they are fighters working with almost nothing. Hospitals are no longer places of healing but the last lines of defence.

In this state of uncertainty and suffering, I hold on to the faint hope that the world will hear the voices of the Gaza patients waiting for evacuation.