Dr. Khadra Salami understands that lives are hanging in the balance beneath the rubble in Gaza, and he does everything possible to save them. He speaks with quiet anger about the cruel reality. The pediatric oncologist reflects on families who sacrificed so much so their children could access the internet, receive cancer therapy, and endure the long, painful journey toward recovery only to be torn apart by a war sparked by human hands. Augusta Victoria Hospital in East Jerusalem sits in a historic building, a castle-like fortress with its own church and bell tower on the Mount of Olives. It remains one of the main medical centers taking Gaza patients, a rare beacon where seriously ill children and adults still receive care. The press of time since October 7 has weighed on everyone who stays behind these smooth walls, trying to hold onto life.
Magnet and his daughter Amira arrived here more than two months ago after a diagnosis of glioma in Gaza. The 11-year-old girl traveled with her mother to the only hospital in Palestine that provides radiation services. Our understanding of the situation is that they received permission from Israeli authorities for only one day, the day they could enter Jerusalem. Returning to their home in Raman with the husband and the other daughter was not an option in that moment. The mother, Iman, lies on a narrow bed, hands trembling as she describes the day they entered the hospital area and were able to begin treatment. They hoped to finish quickly and reunite with their family, but the conflict shifted the course of their plans. The war, unleashed on October 7, intensified the barriers and fears for families who simply want a chance at healing. The story of Amira and her mother mirrors the experiences of many others who are trapped by a protracted crisis. Patients from Gaza are admitted to hospitals in East Jerusalem, a process that has persisted for years as movement restrictions and security controls complicate access to care. Aseel Baidoun, the spokesperson for MAP, represents a wide network of aid workers who document the realities faced by Palestinian families seeking medical treatment in this region.
Hospital arrests
Some of these patients cannot obtain permission to leave Gaza. MAP noted in 2021 that 36% of permit applications were rejected or postponed. Before the war, there were cases where a child with a brain tumor could be operated on at Al-Shifa Hospital, but security checks delayed travel to Jerusalem; by the time they arrived, the tumor often progressed, and treatment had to start anew. Since October 7, approximately 200 Gaza patients have been stranded in East Jerusalem hospitals, with many relying on the support of friends or charity networks to navigate an already fragile system.
In early November an incident occurred as Israeli security forces at Al Makassed Hospital detained several patients who were staying in Israel beyond their medical leaves. Hospital staff near East Jerusalem reported that there were no patients left in Gaza on site. Many of those patients were reportedly moved to hospitals in the occupied West Bank without notice, or were believed to be returned to Gaza by alternative routes. Anonymous hospital sources expressed concern about retaliation and suggested that those patients could be sent back to Gaza, far from the care they needed.
“Talk for hours”
On the pediatric oncology floor at Augusta Victoria Hospital, five families from Gaza lean on one another for support. They have become each other’s strongest allies during moments of uncertainty and heartbreak. They did not know each other before, yet sitting and talking for hours about what has happened to their homeland makes the burden feel a little lighter. The relief that comes from sharing stories with peers shines on the faces of the children and parents as night falls. Rain beads the window as one mother expresses gratitude that her children are alive and that their spirits endure. In Gaza, children continue to smile in the midst of adversity, finding moments of normalcy in a storm that seems to have no end.
Dr. Salami moves through the floor, stopping to visit the room of each of the five patients for a while longer. He reminds them that they are a family, here to listen and explain every part of this frustrating situation. A Ramallah-born physician admits the daily fear and insecurity that accompanies crossing checkpoints with Palestinian-licensed cars to reach work. The hope rests in one simple wish: the conflict ends, and the world learns to protect life rather than tear it apart. For him, the priority remains clear: they work toward a future where these children can recover and return home with dignity.
The mother of two does not share these fears with the many mothers and grandmothers who travel from distant places to save their children’s lives. The sense of being permanently connected to a larger crisis lingers, and the longing for home feels distant. They dream of a peaceful return, but only if safety and stability return. In a white hospital room warmed by colorful blankets and a few Amira plush toys, the war feels distant—until a message pops up on a screen and once again pulls them back to the reality outside those walls.