Sara (left), her sister Yasmin and their mother Abir in the small studio where they are staying. (Credit: Noura Doukhi)
For almost two months, Fatima and her two daughters, aged seven and 11, have spent their days in a studio apartment, just a stone’s throw from the King Hussein Cancer Center (KHCC) in Amman.
Their meager belongings fit into this cramped apartment on the third floor of a residential building.
“We arrived with nothing. People gave us all this,” Fatima said, pointing to a suitcase and a blanket folded over a cupboard next to a mini-fridge. Four pairs of shoes were placed on a chest of drawers on one side of the bed (which takes up most of the space). On the other side, a handful of clothes lay on a tumble dryer.
Sara, the eldest daughter, was diagnosed with leukemia two years ago, underwent a series of medical examinations a few days ago and is due to receive details and a timetable for her treatment shortly.
Before the war, she had been getting treatment at Gaza’s al-Rantisi Hospital. “Of course, we had to stop everything,” said her mother. In early November, this hospital, the only one in the enclave with a pediatric oncology department, was bombed by the Israeli army before being forced to shut down.
‘God wanted to protect us’
Since the first weeks after the outbreak of war, the evacuation of ailing children has become a major concern for countries in the region. In addition to Jordan, Egypt, Turkey, the UAE and Qatar have taken in some of them. Sara is one of 35 children evacuated to the KHCC to resume treatment, out of nearly 9,000 cancer patients in the Gaza Strip, according to Gaza’s health ministry.
Thanks to a contact in Amman, Fatima was able to contact the establishment in October, hoping to register the four family members on the list of Gazans authorized to leave the Palestinian territory. The process took several months due to the family’s regular lack of connection and tireless travel since their home in the Salatin neighborhood in Beit Lahiya in the northern Gaza Strip was bombed in November.
In Jordan, medical expenses and rent are covered by the KHCC. Everything else, all the day-to-day expenses, are covered by the members of this family, who have used up almost all their savings since October.
“The news of our arrival spread by word of mouth. When people hear that Gazans have settled here, they bring them food, clothes... That’s how we manage,” Fatima said. She and her children live on a residence permit, renewable every three months.
Fatima had a tray of soft drinks on the bed and invited her guests to help themselves from a jar of zaatar she had brought from Gaza. It’s the only reminder of her pre-war life.
In front of her children, who are no longer shocked by any words, she spoke of the horrifying five months spent in northern Gaza, of six displacements in this part of the enclave, the heart-rending farewell to her husband and the 13-day journey — by car, on foot and on a donkey-drawn cart — to cross the southern road and pass through the Rafah crossing.
Next to her were Yasmin and Sara who completed their mother’s story. After everything they’ve been through, they talked like grown-ups. “God wanted to protect us,” said the youngest, grateful to be safe despite the nightmare they endured in December in one of the shelters that housed them, the Kamal Edwan Hospital in Beit Lahiya.
“It was chaotic,” said Fatima. “Upstairs, the corpses of 20 martyrs and the wounded lay on the floor. Everything was dirty. There was no food. In front of the hospital, eagles and dogs were fighting to eat the remains of a dead donkey.” Yasmin couldn't utter a word for the next two days.
‘I want to return to Gaza’
In Gaza, when Fatima and her children left for Rafah in February, a neighbor warned them: Only women and children were allowed to cross the Israeli checkpoints. Men, on the other hand, get shot at. “To avoid the risk, my husband didn’t go with us,” said the mother, pausing momentarily. Next to her, Sara broke down in tears. “I want my daddy. He stayed in Beit Lahiya and now lives in a tent,” she said.
Fatima and her daughters spend most of their time on the phone with him. “Not every day. When he can be reached,” said the mother. Torn apart by the distance, they all hope to see him again, convinced they will return to Gaza sooner or later.
A few kilometers away, Deya, 35, spoke from a comfortable suite in a 3-star hotel, but he’s in the same frame of mind: “I want to go back to Gaza, even if it’s to live in a tent.”
This wing of the hotel is home to 28 Gazan children suffering from cancer, evacuated with at least one relative.
Mohammad, 11, who has been suffering from an aggressive form of blood cancer since April 2023, smiled politely but remained silent. He, Douaa, his 6-year-old sister and their father Deya landed in Jordan at the end of November, almost 50 days after the start of the war.
“As a man, I could never have left Gaza today. But those were the early days; there weren’t as many Israeli checkpoints,” said the father, originally from Gaza City. His wife, six months pregnant, was unable to follow them because she couldn’t walk long distances.
Sitting at a small table overlooking the hotel room window, Deya recounted how, in early October, he managed to contact the director of St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in the USA. The hospital was in charge of obtaining Mohammad’s file and transferring it to KHCC. It also covered the cost of flying the three family members from Cairo to Amman by private plane and is paying for their hotel suite, including meals.
Mohammad (left) stands with his father Deya and younger sister Douaa in their suite at the al-Fanar Hotel in Amman. (Credit: Noura Doukhi)
At his father’s side, Mohammad listened attentively. On the surface, his life looks like that of a Jordanian his age. Thanks to an initiative undertaken by a private school in Amman, the little boy goes to school every week, like 10 other Gazan children suffering from various illnesses.
But in reality, his daily life has changed completely in a year. First, in April 2023, he was diagnosed with cancer. Mohammad went back and forth between Gaza and the West Bank for treatment. Then, on Oct. 8, one day after the outbreak of the war, he was due to receive a dose of chemotherapy at the Istishari Arab Hospital in Ramallah. Not only was his treatment interrupted at a time when he couldn't leave the enclave, but anxiety also took hold of him.
“In Gaza, I slept facing the window, holding my two children in my arms. When the sky changed color, it meant Israel was striking. So I would cover their ears so as not to frighten them. Despite this, they lived through everything with me,” recounted Deya.
‘Nothing would ever be the same again’
He grabbed his phone and scrolled through photos of their daily lives just seven months ago. “I worked as an accountant. We led a gentle life on our land: We went to the seaside all the time, to restaurants.”
In selfies taken at the pool, the 30-year-old smiled broadly, alone in the photos or alongside his wife. In one shot, she was posing in front of a heart she had drawn on the sand, with the initials of their first names inscribed in the middle.
Today, Deya awaits the news of his family, scattered between Gaza City and Rafah. “Our family split in two to increase our chances of survival. My father stayed with my wife, my brothers and their wives. My mother [stayed] with my sisters and their husbands.”
Deya, sitting in a club with a swimming pool in Gaza, before the war began. (Credit: Deya)
Deya lit a cigarette and bitterly recalled Oct. 7. When Operation al-Aqsa Flood broke out, he saw fighters from the al-Qassam Brigades parading around Gaza in front of Israeli jeeps they had just seized.
“I was excited, then very quickly terrified. I knew that nothing would ever be the same again,” he said. Hamas had to prepare for this war and protect its population. You want to liberate Palestine and resist. But what was the result of all that? Death and disease all over the Gaza Strip.”
From her room at Jordan Hospital, where she is staying with her daughter, Abir scoffed at voicing an opinion on Hamas or any Palestinian faction. “I have no political orientation and I don’t care about any of that,” she said in a quiet, barely audible voice. “All I care about is Islam’s health condition.” Her 12-year-old granddaughter Islam suffers from kidney failure. Her father did too. He died following a blood transfusion before the outbreak of war.
Three times a week, for several hours at a time, Islam undergoes dialysis sessions while awaiting a kidney transplant. She and her mother arrived in Jordan a month and a half ago, at the expense of Jordan Hospital. Since then, Abir has never left the room.
“I try to communicate with my relatives in Gaza, but it’s complicated to reach them,” she said. The space is sober and houses the bare essentials: Two beds, two cupboards and a mini-fridge. To the side, a door gives access to a toilet and a small shower room. One can hardly tell that people are sleeping there. Only a prayer mat lies on a table, next to a switched-off television.
Leaning over the hospital bed where Islam sits, Abir spared her words and looked exhausted. Her gaze was deadened. Beside her, her daughter looked shy and remained silent. She’s very ill psychologically,” said her mother, once Islam moved away. “She cries all night and asks nothing but questions about her health.”
To take her mind off things, two Jordanians who heard that a Gazan family was staying there offered to take the young teenager to the veterinary clinic once a week. “Islam loves cats. In Gaza, she used to spend her time with hers, Alia,” said Abir.
Throughout the conversation, she kept herself from breaking down. When she mentioned her two youngest children who have stayed in Gaza, she could no longer hold back her tears. When she hurriedly left the enclave, the mother didn’t know if it was possible to take them with her. “They stay with members of our extended family in a tent in Deir al-Balah.” Today, she is safe but lives with the guilt of having left them behind.
This article was originally published in L'Orient-Le Jour. Translated by Joelle El Khoury.
