At sealed Rafah crossing, Palestinian patients in Gaza struggling between life and death

For the third consecutive day, the Rafah border crossing has remained sealed, trapping thousands of Gaza residents in a limbo where illness, desperation, and bureaucratic obstacles collide.

The closure, which Israel has justified by citing deteriorating security conditions linked to regional tensions with Iran, has left patients and their families facing what many describe as a daily struggle between life and death.

Since the reopening of the Rafah border a month ago, only 1,148 out of the 3,400 patients who had been promised passage were able to leave—barely one-third, according to the Hamas-run government media office.

However, Palestinian and international organisations estimate that between 16,500 and 35,000 individuals, including patients and wounded civilians, urgently need medical care abroad.

More than 60 per cent of hospitals in Gaza have been partially or fully destroyed, while critical shortages of medications and equipment have rendered many medical facilities incapable of providing life-saving treatment.

In this context, the closure of Rafah is not just a bureaucratic hurdle; it is a direct threat to human life.

Every minute is a risk

In a modest apartment in Gaza City, Ahmed Abdel-Aati, 58, leans against a cushion, his face pale and lined with anxiety.

A resident of Beit Lahia in northern Gaza, Ahmed underwent heart surgery weeks ago and had been scheduled to travel to Egypt for specialised follow-up care. That journey, however, has been indefinitely postponed.

"Every hour that passes feels like my heart is breaking more," Ahmed told The New Arab.

"The doctors warned that delays could cause serious complications, even death. Every minute that I remain here, immobilised, I feel despair closing in, like time itself is working against me. I close my eyes and imagine being in a hospital, regaining strength, but the truth is that I am stuck, and the clock never stops," he said.

Ahmed's words reflect not only physical pain but the psychological toll of waiting. "I feel like a stranger in my own home. Every sound in the street, every noise around me, reminds me that my life is on hold. There is no one to comfort me, no one to ease this fear," he added.

Reem Al-Ali, a 22-year-old woman, was diagnosed with leukaemia just two years ago. She urgently requires chemotherapy sessions abroad, but like Ahmed, she has been trapped in Gaza. Scheduled to travel through Rafah today, she remains confined within her home.

"The physical pain is one thing," Reem told TNA as her voice trembled, "but the pain of waiting is worse. Every time I think about the closed crossing, I feel suffocated. It is as if the illness is always one step ahead of me. I hear about patients who die before reaching care, and I fear the same fate."

"I wake up in the middle of the night, crying from fear. My little sister tries to comfort me, but she cannot understand the magnitude of what I am going through. Every minute of delay makes hope slip away, and the life I dream of begins to crumble before my eyes," she said.

Nine-year-old Omar Abu Aisha from Gaza City suffers from a congenital heart defect. He was scheduled to travel with his mother, Samia, for urgent surgery, but the closure has rendered that impossible.

"Every minute of delay could kill my son," Samia told TNA as her voice broke, saying, "I watch his little heart labouring with exhaustion, and I feel time stealing his life before my eyes. The doctors said the delay could be fatal, and I am powerless."

"He smiles at me despite the pain, but his eyes tell the truth. He is afraid of dying. I tried to comfort him by speaking about the journey, the doctors, and the treatment, but everything is postponed indefinitely. Every passing minute feels like I am losing him, and the last traces of hope are slipping through my fingers," she added.

Human cost of bureaucratic paralysis

Across Gaza, the health sector is in a state of collapse. Hospitals are struggling under immense pressure, operating with limited staff, minimal electricity, and severe shortages of medicines and critical medical equipment.

Some facilities have activated emergency plans, but even these measures fall short in addressing the overwhelming demand.

"Patients arrive every day with conditions that require immediate intervention," Munir al-Borsh, the general director of the health ministry in Gaza, told TNA.

"We have children with heart defects, cancer patients, and wounded adults. Every delay could be fatal. The closure of Rafah is turning routine medical care into desperate gambling," he said.

International organisations warned that the situation is worsening rapidly. The World Health Organisation has reported that hospitals are running out of essential drugs, including chemotherapy agents, insulin, and antibiotics. Oxygen supplies and surgical equipment are increasingly scarce, making even basic procedures life-threatening.

For families in Gaza, waiting is not a neutral state; it is a lived trauma. Parents, siblings, and spouses bear witness to the slow deterioration of loved ones while authorities remain silent.

"The problem is not just medicine or hospitals; It is the lack of a functioning system to allow patients to access urgent care," al-Borsh said.

"People are dying not only from disease but from delay. And every day that Rafah remains closed, the numbers grow. The closure is a siege on hope itself," he added.

For the patients and their families, the psychological toll is as severe as the physical danger. Anxiety, sleepless nights, and the constant fear of impending death have become part of daily life.

Many describe a sense of helplessness and isolation, compounded by the absence of a clear plan or timeline for reopening the crossing for medical cases.