The WHO has called Hanin. There is a place in a medical evacuation. She leaves after Eid.

She tells me herself. No official coordinator, no system. Hanin tells me.

She is terrified. She says she would rather stay in Gaza and die there than face what is waiting for her on the other side.

I have to convince her to go.

I talk to her every day. I tell her she will not be alone, that we will be there. I put together a support group with trusted donors. In a few days we raise $400 — for her, right now, a record.

There is another fight: the authorities have not included Maha on the evacuation list. Maha is eleven. There is no family left in Gaza to leave her with — everyone is gone. We push until they include her.

With part of the money raised, Hanin buys clothes, shoes, and food for the journey. The first new things they have had in a long time.

Hanin writes to me from the border. They are stopped, waiting. She sends me a photo.

Hanin and Maryam in the ambulance. Border crossing, 3 June 2026.

They have left Gaza.

I find out they left when she writes to tell me they have arrived. No warning. No coordination. That is how this works.

They arrive at Bir Al-Abd, northern Sinai. A transit centre. Two rooms with bunk beds — one for men, one for women. Five families per room. Too many people for the space.

The accommodation at Bir Al-Abd.

Every morning: bread and cheese. That is all they provide. No medication — it was left behind in Gaza. No documents — they have been kept by the authorities. No information. Just: wait.

With the money she has, Hanin buys extra food, milk for Maryam, nappies. She pays $50 to keep her mobile line active in Egypt — without that, she is cut off from everyone.

Hanin writes to me these days in a tone I have not heard from her before. She regrets having left. Once, twice, several times. Do I know for certain she made the right decision? Will there really be a hospital on the other side of this wait?

I don't know what to tell her. But I tell her to keep going.

News of the transfer reaches me during the weekend, at odd hours, in fragments.

Thursday evening, around seven, they were told they were being transferred. Taken to Bir Al-Abd hospital, where they waited under heavy guard without explanation. At ten a bus arrived. Night travel, security checks, searches along the way. They arrived at Masakin Al-Abd residences at half past two in the morning.

They were left on the bus until five in the morning.

When an employee arrived, he refused to receive them. Bir Al-Abd had not requested authorisation. A bureaucratic dispute between two institutions, and Hanin's family the victim. Bilal went from employee to employee asking for a room. Sent to high floors, went up, nothing, came back down, another floor. Until seven in the morning. They were offered a 3×3 metre room, already occupied by other families. They refused. They were put on the street.

Sama and Maha on the street in Cairo, waiting. 11 June 2026.

Maryam and Sama on the ground at night, with nowhere to go.

They stayed on the street until five in the afternoon. No one intervened.

When they finally got authorisation and recovered their papers, they went to the home of a contact of Bilal's. A roof for that night. Nothing more.

Hanin writes when they arrive. She tells me she wishes she had stayed in Gaza and died there.

A member of Displaced Children's Fund manages to contact someone in Egypt. That person reaches Hanin and Bilal and gives them the first concrete guidance since leaving Gaza: apply for passports, find their own accommodation, build a base.

Each passport costs $40. There are five of them.

It is the first useful information they have received since crossing the border. Ten days after leaving Gaza.

Hanin has a hospital appointment on Wednesday.

They are sleeping in the home of a contact from the support group. Not their home. Not permanent. They need to rent — and for that they need a deposit, bedding, towels, kitchen basics. Everything they had in Gaza and left behind. Starting from zero in a country that is not theirs, without documents, without a network.

The Palestinian embassy told her she must go to a public hospital, get a medical report, and apply for the embassy to cover her treatment. Response time: 15 days. Meanwhile, they need to be able to live.

The campaign has little visibility. Few people know her story. That is what needs to change.

I have been following this family for over a year. I know what it costs to hold a campaign, to keep attention on a story when the world has too many stories in front of it. And still I am here. Because Hanin has never asked for help without being desperate. Because her daughters are very thin and have never had anything. Because Maryam started her life with severe malnutrition and is still fragile. Because Bilal looks for solutions with a dignity that makes your hands hurt from not being able to do more.

They are a family that has been punished for a long time. And they are still standing.

Update — 18 June 2026

Yesterday, Wednesday, Hanin had her first hospital appointment in Cairo. She waited nearly 12 hours. When they finally saw her — because she is Palestinian, she was seen last. The result: a written referral summarising her known condition, with no new tests carried out. To have her surgery covered by the Palestinian Authority, she must now submit a formal application to the embassy.

Waiting room. Cairo public hospital, 17 June 2026.

Meanwhile, Maryam is sick. Fever, flu. Her immune system has never been strong — the consequence of years of inadequate nutrition starting from birth. There is no margin in her body for illness.

Maryam, sick with fever. Cairo, 16 June 2026.

On housing: we have no solution yet. Cairo is expensive. Rents are high even for small rooms, and building a sustainable donor base to cover monthly costs is going to be very difficult. The support group has helped bridge these first days, and we have some funds — but not enough, and not for long.

We are now contacting every NGO in Cairo that works with Palestinian refugees, asking for help with housing. We will not stop until we find something.