Netanyahu’s Policy of Ban Killed My Mother and Left Many on the Brink

By Aseel J. Ghaben

My mother was in my arms when she peacefully drew her last breath and succumbed to cancer that had ravaged her body on the morning of day 351 of the relentless Israeli genocide in Gaza, marking Saturday, Sep. 21st, 2024.
A profound stillness enveloped the house as my mother rested her head against my chest at exactly 10 o’clock that day. From a distance, my father’s voice pierced the quiet: “Your mother has fainted! Quickly, call your brother Khaled, the nurse, to come!”
Seconds melted into an ocean of anguish within my heart as the reality of her departure sank in. Khaled rushed in, desperately administering first aid and artificial respiration for my mother.
His efforts were a flicker of hope in the suffocating silence that enveloped us until he gestured with his hands a somber signal that there was no hope for her recovery.
My mother passed away just five days after her second round of chemotherapy, having endured a torrent of suffering akin to that of the countless cancer patients in Gaza who fall victim to a brutal, Nazi-like, sadistic occupation.
It has been a year since Israel waged its Genocide in Gaza and more than 12,000 Cancer patients are enduring harrowing Israeli ban of cure, oppressive barriers to travel, and ceaseless hardships of war conditions. All were intentionally designed by Israel.
A new report titled “Gaza: War on Women’s Health” published by UN women said that over 177,000 women in Gaza face life-threatening health risks, and many thousands of pregnant and lactating women are at risk of death due to diabetes or cancer.

The Outset of Suffering

In late December, two months into the war, we were forced to leave our refugee camp in Al-Bureij and seek refuge in relatives’ house in Deir Al-Balah, driven by the ominous threats of Israeli military in anticipation of a ground operation.
Deir Al-Balah at that time was a shelter for about 400,000 displaced people, and many people from Al-Bureij found no place in schools-turned shelters. The scenes of displaced people taking refuge in tents in the city’s streets was miserable.
For a full 45 days, we took shelter in the home of relatives, but in the throes of displacement, everything seems distorted, as if a vast lens has magnified our reality, casting us into a profound estrangement from our home and loved ones.
We languished in a harsh landscape of dwindling water and scarce food, surrounded by the relentless echoes of daily shelling in an area that was already declared “safe”.
During this time, my mother descended into a profound silence; her words became few, her appetite waned, and she spent her days lost in deep reflection on our grim reality. The weight of our circumstances etched itself into her very being, manifesting in both her frail physique and the shadow that lingered in her eyes.
After the army withdrew from the heart of Al-Bureij refugee camp, we made the difficult decision to return home. It was a choice fraught with uncertainty; we had scant information to assure us that the camp was safe or that we had escaped the threat of shelling.
Yet, my mother’s yearning for our home had become unbearable. The separation weighed heavily on her, and she began to show troubling signs—losing weight and grappling with a diminishing appetite during our time in Deir Al-Balah. Her spirit, once resilient, now seemed fragile, urging us back to the familiar embrace of our own walls.
My mother was engulfed in a profound emotional turmoil brought on by the atrocities of the ongoing genocide. I vividly recall that on the day she learned of our house being bombed, she could not bring herself to eat a single bite.
On February 6, 2024, we became the first family to return to our neighborhood, only to discover our house in a state of partial ruin. As my mother beheld the fallen kitchen walls and the damage to other rooms, she offered a quiet prayer of gratitude, realizing that we still had a fragment of our home to shelter us.
The circumstances following our return were harsh: there was no market, water was scarce, and attacks were frequent. Nights were desolate, filled with the eerie sounds of drones, and an overwhelming sense of dread lingered in the air.

Psychological Warfare

Days after our return, my mother started to suffer from a bitter frailty, vomiting blood several times each day. We were at a loss, unaware of the affliction that had befallen her. Several months prior to the war, she had undergone numerous tests, all revealing her to be in good health.
When we took her to Nasser Hospital—the sole operational facility in the southern region—to undergo an urgent endoscopy in March, we were unprepared for the devastating news the doctor conveyed: A large abnormal mass was obstructing the entrance to my mother’s stomach, accompanied by two additional masses creeping along the stomach walls.
It was cancer, deemed malignant. This doctor’s prognosis elucidated her frailty and the relentless vomiting.
We were filled with doubt, for my mother had not suffered pain before the war. My sister speculated that our mother’s relentless worries about our plight during the genocide might have inflicted a deeper harm than any physical ailment could.
The doctor urged us to be patient until the biopsy results could clarify the severity and stage of her illness. My mother cancer’s sample was sent to the European Hospital, as Nasser Hospital did not have the specialized equipment for analyzing cancer samples.
The entire Gaza Strip was only relying on the Palestinian-Turkish Friendship hospital, located in Natzarim area-now stands as a barrier between south and north, to deal with cancer problems. However, the hospital has now been used by the Israeli army as a military base, and the cancer devices were prone to ultimate devastation.
We faced a wait of at least ten days to confirm the doctor’s assessment before embarking on mom’s treatment journey, but the second assault on Khan Younis rendered that hope futile.

My Mom’s Cancer Sample Lost

Immediately, two of my siblings made their way to the European Hospital, where my mother’s cancer sample was dispatched to the laboratory for analysis, seeking confirmation of the doctor’s assessment from the endoscopy.
The doctor could not devise an urgent treatment plan until we received the biopsy results from the European Hospital, and thus came the catastrophe.
On the very day we sent the sample to the European Hospital, late at night, the Israeli forces unleashed evacuation threats over the hospital vicinity, compelling patients and medical staff to abandon the premises. A palpable wave of panic and chaos swept through the wards, leaving a trail of fear in its wake.
Videos from the vicinity of the European hospital depicted patients on hospital beds being hastily evacuated to Nasser Hospital. Meanwhile, some collaborators of the Israeli forces entered to steal electronic equipment and beds, while others vandalized the sample laboratory and more, all orchestrated under the orders of the Israeli soldiers.
Days later, we contacted numerous specialists to trace the whereabouts of my mother’s cancer sample. One specialist conveyed the disheartening news: it had likely been lost or even destroyed.
He added that access to the European hospital vicinity was impossible, hindered by the pervasive drone activity and the direct Israeli targeting of civilians.
Another specialist revealed that some cancer samples had indeed survived the destruction attempts and had been transferred to Nasser Hospital. We spent more than two weeks scouring the halls of Nasser in search of my mother’s sample, yet it disappeared completely.
During that time, we were enveloped in a profound sense of frustration, for reaching the stage of awaiting biopsy results signified that we had already traversed a long and arduous path through the hospital corridors and wards, all within a crumbling healthcare system.
To lose a cancer sample meant that we would need at least another two months to re-coordinate and book an appointment for the endoscopy, a delay that could hasten my mother’s slow death. Every passing minute was bearing witness to my mother’s profound suffering as she endured her illness.

Acute Shortage and Slow Death

The absence of my mother’s sample plunged the doctors into deep uncertainty. Some recommended that my mother start chemotherapy before the sample results were confirmed, considering the gravity of her condition.
Others suggested initiating palliative chemo treatment to slow the disease’s progression while awaiting another endoscopy, which could take a month or more in normal time.
The doctor held onto hope for her treatment, even in the absence of any reassuring signs regarding the biopsy results. He informed us that the cancer masses had not yet breached the walls of the stomach, suggesting that her treatment could still be effective, given that she was free from any chronic or temporary ailments.
Thus, the doctors convened under the guidance of a seasoned American physician, meeting via Zoom to deliberate her condition and devise a treatment plan. They determined that if implemented correctly, the plan held a success rate exceeding 80%.
The doctors determined that my mother would commence with palliative treatment using light chemo drugs, followed by four sessions of chemotherapy. This would be succeeded by surgery abroad, after which she would undergo four additional sessions.
However, the brutal policies of the Israeli occupation thwarted the implementation of the plan, leaving my mother’s condition in no progress and treatment for weeks.
Under Israeli ban and flat-out destruction in Gaza health system, we had struggled to find the specific medications required to combat the cancer that had ravaged her body.
Not only that, the doctors were unable to prepare the chemotherapy doses due to the lack of essential medical supplies. Hence, doctors issued her an urgent referral for treatment outside the Gaza Strip. Alas, Israel has been closing all Gaza crossing and intensified restrictions on Rafah.
After a month, Israel green lighted referral for treatment outside Gaza for only 100 children of cancer patients. My mother and many other thousands of patients have been denied traveling.
According to Gaza Government media office, the Israeli closure of crossings is turning the clock faster towards the death of 10,000 cancer patients in the Gaza Strip as they need to travel for treatment. In addition, 350,000 chronic patients are at risk due to non-administration of medications.
This period felt like a noose tightening around my mother’s neck, slowly sapping her strength as we helplessly witnessed her gradual decline.
After more than a week, the doctors managed to provide light chemo pills to my mother, which she continued to take for a month. During this time, my mother displayed symptoms of loss of appetite, profound weakness, and an inability to eat any type of food.
Therefore, we resorted to compensating her with intravenous fluids, but it wasn’t long before the hospital ran out of supplies. Consequently, my mother spent most of her days relying solely on one or two cups of juice.
The Palestinian Ministry of Health warned this month that 83% of health supplies, including fluids, have been exhausted from stockpiles in Gaza due to a one-year Israeli ban on medical supplies entry.
When the time arrived for the chemotherapy sessions outlined in the doctors’ plan, the doctors were compelled to postpone them for over other two weeks due to the unavailability of the necessary medications to prepare the treatment mix. By that point, my mother’s body had diminished to a mere 50 kilograms, enduring a harrowing period devoid of food and drink.
Three weeks before her passing, my mother received her first dose of chemotherapy, with the second coming just two weeks later. This marked the darkest chapter in her life—and ours. The signs of her fatigue became painfully evident: her body grew frail, her appetite vanished, and her skin bore the harsh marks of treatment, darkened and burned. It felt as though we were witnessing a slow, inevitable farewell.
The day before her second chemotherapy session, my mother called me and said, “I am so tired, my dear. I won’t live until traveling time.” Those words penetrated my heart harshly as a stab and echoed in the air as a poignant declaration of her near death.
My mother passed away without ever realizing that the affliction gnawing at her body and altering her once-beautiful face was cancer. She remained oblivious to the fact that the despair and agony she endured were intensified by Netanyahu’s orders to seal the borders and deny access to medicine.
While we shielded her with comforting lies, claiming she suffered from a stomach ulcer to spare her from further anguish, Netanyahu’s actions wrought suffering upon thousands of other cancer patients: children, women, and the elderly.