A Canvas of Hope and Despair: The Looming Deportation of Gaza’s Most Vulnerable Patients 

In a move condemned by human rights advocates as a “death sentence,” Israeli authorities are planning to deport dozens of critically ill Palestinian patients, including 16-year-old Yamen Al-Najjar, from hospitals in East Jerusalem back to the Gaza Strip, where 94% of medical facilities have been damaged or destroyed.

Despite having a WHO-approved transfer to a third country, Yamen and his mother are among at least 89 patients and their companions facing forced return to the war-torn enclave, a decision that physicians and legal experts argue is a violation of Israel’s obligations under international humanitarian law, given that it has rendered Gaza’s healthcare system non-functional and cannot therefore shirk responsibility for the lives of those in its care.

A Canvas of Hope and Despair: The Looming Deportation of Gaza’s Most Vulnerable Patients 

In a small hospital room in occupied East Jerusalem, a 16-year-old boy named Yamen Al-Najjar is fighting two battles. One is against a rare and debilitating bleeding disorder that has confined him to a hospital bed for two years. The other is against a bureaucratic decree that he and his mother call a “death sentence.” His weapons? A set of paints, a dream of becoming an artist, and a mother’s ferocious love. 

Yamen’s story, and that of at least 88 other Gazan patients in East Jerusalem hospitals, has become the latest flashpoint in the devastating humanitarian crisis unfolding in the aftermath of the October 7th attacks. According to doctors and human rights groups, Israeli authorities have ordered the deportation of these patients back to Gaza as early as next week—a move that advocates say is tantamount to a death sentence for those who rely on a healthcare system that has been systematically decimated. 

A Life Measured in Square Meters and Sorrow 

For Yamen, the past two years have been a study in confinement. His world has shrunk to a six-square-meter room he shares with his mother, Haifa. He recalls a past life—school, laughter, a home in Gaza City—with the poignant clarity of someone who knows those things are now relics. “I miss my house, my siblings’ voices, my school, colors and the sea,” he told CNN. His present is defined by pain, fluctuating blood pressure, and constant bleeding. 

Medically evacuated just two days before the war began, Yamen’s journey was supposed to be one of healing. His mother secured a World Health Organization (WHO) approval for a medical transfer to a third country, a process that has now stretched into a 14-month search for a host nation. That fragile hope shattered this week when doctors at Makassed Hospital delivered the news: Israel plans to send all Gazan patients back. 

“All my hard work will vanish before my eyes,” Haifa Al-Najjar said, her voice breaking. “I can’t comprehend how a sick child is going to be sent back to a disaster-stricken area.” Her statement, “This is a death sentence for my son,” is not hyperbole but a medical prognosis. In Gaza, Yamen’s family is displaced in a tent camp in Al-Mawasi. For a child with a compromised immune system and a condition requiring consistent, advanced care, survival in such an environment, without functional hospitals, is measured in hours, not days. 

A Mosaic of Forced Choices: Between Hell and Heartbreak 

The group facing deportation is a cross-section of Gaza’s human suffering. It includes newborns, an 85-year-old elder, and patients with conditions ranging from cancer to kidney failure. Their responses to the order reveal the impossible choices forced upon them by the conflict. 

Nafez Al Qahwaji, from Khan Younis, has kidney failure and requires dialysis three times a week. “The hospital informed us yesterday that we will all be deported back to Gaza, I was shocked to hear this after knowing the inhuman conditions that patients live in in Gaza,” he said. His conclusion is stark and simple: “I will die there in two days.” For him, deportation is a direct threat to his life. 

In heartbreaking contrast, Nael Ezzeddine, who has a heart condition, has not objected to returning. After 25 months in the hospital, he knows his home in Jabalya is destroyed. His ten children and wife are displaced in a tent in Deir el-Balah. “I miss my family… I want to go and be with them. I know how they suffer, but what will I do here?” he asked. For Nael, the choice is between dying alone in a hospital bed or dying with his family in the rubble. This is the brutal calculus of despair. 

The Legal and Moral Quagmire: Who Bears Responsibility? 

The planned deportations have drawn swift condemnation from human rights organizations and legal experts. Physicians for Human Rights Israel (PHRI) has been at the forefront, calling the move “unacceptable from moral, medical, and legal standpoints.” 

Aseel Aburass, director of the Occupied Territories Department at PHRI, articulated the core legal argument: “Israel is obligated under international humanitarian law to ensure that patients in need of medical care continue to receive it.” This obligation, she stresses, is heightened by the fact that “Israel itself… destroyed Gaza’s health care system and so cannot now shirk its responsibility for the lives and health of these patients.” 

This is the crux of the issue. The WHO reports that a staggering 94% of hospitals in Gaza have been damaged or destroyed. Sending a patient like Yamen, who cannot even get the treatment he needs in Jerusalem, to a landscape where clinics operate in tents without anesthesia, consistent power, or specialized equipment, is not a transfer of care—it is an abandonment of it. 

The Israeli Supreme Court has intervened in similar situations before, temporarily halting the deportation of 22 patients in March 2024 following a petition by PHRI and media coverage. This precedent offers a sliver of hope, but it also underscores the ad-hoc and precarious nature of these patients’ lives, subject to the shifting tides of legal and political pressure. 

The Art of Survival: Painting a World Beyond the Gray 

Amidst the clinical sterility of his room, Yamen’s art is an act of profound defiance. His paintings are not of the gray walls that surround him but of vibrant nature, Palestinian landscapes, and cultural symbols. He paints to “bring color back to a world that has turned gray.” In one particularly touching piece, he depicted the popular children’s entertainer Ms. Rachel wearing a traditional dress embroidered with paintings from children in Gaza—a poignant fusion of a global symbol of childhood innocence with the specific, besieged identity of his homeland. 

This creative impulse is more than a hobby; it is a mechanism of psychological survival. It is a testament to the human spirit’s ability to create beauty and meaning even in the face of overwhelming suffering and imminent threat. Yamen’s dream to become an artist is a dream of a future, a normal life, and a testament to the childhood that has been stolen from him and an entire generation in Gaza. 

The Unanswered Questions and a Plea for Humanity 

As the deadline looms, critical questions remain unanswered. CNN’s request for comment from COGAT, the Israeli military body coordinating activities in the territories, has so far gone unanswered. The logistics of transferring critically ill patients across a active war zone are nightmarish, and the ultimate responsibility for their care upon arrival is dangerously unclear. 

The situation of these patients is a microcosm of the larger Gaza crisis: it involves complex legal obligations, devastating humanitarian needs, and the raw, human cost of political and military conflict. For Yamen, Nafez, Nael, and dozens of others, the abstract principles of international law translate into a very simple, visceral reality—the right to live. 

As Ahmad Tibi, a Palestinian-Israeli parliament member, told CNN, “Sending them back under the current conditions will be a death blow; instead of dying from an airstrike, he will die from being deprived of medical treatment.” 

Yamen’s final words are a plea not just for himself, but for every child trapped in the nightmare. “I have suffered a lot and I just want to rest… I hope every child in Gaza lives like any child in the world… I don’t want any child to get sick or be afraid like me.” 

In the end, the fate of these 89 patients will be a defining test of conscience. Will they be returned to a shattered world where their medical needs cannot be met, or will a pathway be found to preserve the fragile sanctuary they currently hold? The answer will be written not just in court documents and government directives, but in the life or death of a 16-year-old boy who just wants to paint.