A Two-Day Journey for a Cast: How Medical Care and Movement in Gaza Became a Luxury
When my child broke his hand, I carried him across Gaza. Not for lack of love—but for lack of transport, doctors, and functioning hospitals.
It took just two days for me to see how Gaza’s reality has turned even more bitter. Far darker than it appears on the surface. That realization began with the sound of my child crying after a fall during a moment of innocent play. His small hand broke—and so did something in me. That pain wasn’t just from a fracture. It was the beginning of a journey that showed me how far Gaza’s living conditions have deteriorated under Israel’s ongoing genocide.
A Walk of Desperation
I left everything behind and carried my injured child in my arms for 30 minutes to reach Al-Awda Hospital in Al-Nuseirat. Not because I preferred to walk, but because that’s the reality: there was no transportation. In Gaza, Israel’s blockade has made fuel scarce, and transportation is nearly nonexistent. What once were bustling streets are now ghostly and empty, save for scattered vendors and displaced families.
Inside Gaza, we have no choice in how we access healthcare. Hospitals are bombed at will. Doctors are killed without explanation. The world turns its face away. According to the Ministry of Health, Israel has killed 1,402 medical personnel since October 2023. Dr. Medhat Abbas, Director-General of the ministry, says 74% of essential medicines and 83% of medical supplies are now unavailable.
When I arrived, I was told there was no orthopedic specialist to treat my child. No doctor could help—no doctor, no cast. The hospital had no choice but to send me to Al-Aqsa Hospital in Deir al-Balah. But the sun was about to set—and in Gaza, movement becomes impossible after dark. That’s when fear takes hold of us, as Israel’s aggression grows more brutal at night.
A Truck of Hope
At dawn, I set out again. A 20-minute walk led to a familiar scene: dozens of people waiting in silence for a ride, any ride. After an hour, I found a freight truck. It wasn’t meant for people, but desperation makes anything possible. The fare was outrageous. I paid without hesitation.
This wasn’t just a struggle for transportation. It was part of a larger system of control. Since the genocide began, more than 115,688 Palestinians have been injured in Gaza. Israel has tightened its siege on the wounded, cutting fuel to hospitals and emergency services. The Palestinian Red Crescent reports that 18 ambulances have stopped operating since March 2025 due to fuel shortages—36% of their fleet.
At Al-Aqsa Hospital, my son finally got a cast. But I was stranded, again.
Carts Replacing Cars
Leaving the hospital, I saw what now moves Gaza: not cars, but carts pulled by donkeys. Drivers shouted destinations—Al-Nuseirat, Khan Younis, Al-Zawayda—trying to gather passengers. I stood, torn between pride and exhaustion, my child in my arms. I chose the cart.
This is the new reality. In Gaza, animal-drawn carts now carry the sick, the wounded, and even the dead. During Israel’s most recent forced evacuation of Rafah and Khan Younis, countless families found themselves unable to afford the soaring cost of transportation. They walked—mothers, fathers, children—bearing only what their arms could carry, leaving behind homes and cherished belongings in a desperate pursuit of safety. Others, even more unfortunate, remained buried in the rubble of Al-Khirba in Rafah—not by choice, but because no vehicle ever came. For them, escape was not a matter of will, but a matter of impossibility.
The Palestinian Civil Defense says Israel has targeted and destroyed 72 emergency vehicles, including ambulances and fire trucks. With roads damaged, fuel gone, and no help in sight, carts have become lifelines. They carry victims of airstrikes, people clinging to survival.
A Story Written in Dust
My child’s broken hand might seem small compared to Gaza’s daily horror. But it’s part of a much larger tragedy: two million people stripped of their rights—among them, the simple right to move, to heal, to live.
In Gaza, a broken bone is more than an injury. It’s a reflection of a broken system designed to break us. And yet, we keep moving—on foot, in carts, in whatever way we can. Because in Gaza, we don’t stop living. We write our story in dust, pain, and hope.
