In the dim, overcrowded halls of Al-Shifa Hospital, seventeen-year-old Batoul Mesharawi clings to life, her dreams suspended between silence and machines. Just weeks ago, she walked home from school, hopeful and determined, preparing for her final exams. Now, she lies unconscious after being struck by shrapnel from an Israeli missile, her future as a physiotherapist replaced by an uncertain battle for survival.

On 17 May, Batoul was caught in an Israeli airstrike while returning from a study session with classmates in western Gaza. Four of her friends were killed on the spot. Batoul was hit in the head. Initially still conscious, she phoned her family from the ambulance. But overwhelmed doctors at Al-Shifa overlooked the severity of her injury. Within minutes, her condition spiralled, vomiting, confusion, then silence.

With basic medical services collapsing under the weight of the siege, her family fought desperately to get her help. Lacking diagnostic tools, she was moved to a second hospital, where surgeons operated to relieve pressure from her brain. Her condition worsened. Her family sold jewellery to fund a vital drainage device, which failed within hours. Now, Batoul lies between life and death, her body fed through tubes, her dreams suspended by a machine.

She is one of more than 14,000 patients awaiting medical evacuation from Gaza. The siege has rendered hospitals ineffective, medicines scarce, and critical transfers nearly impossible. Since March, every border has been sealed. The Rafah Crossing, Gaza’s last exit to the world, was flattened during the Israeli ground invasion in May.

Batoul’s brother, Alaa, pleads not for pity but for justice. “My sister is not a number. She is the flower of our home. All she wanted was to heal others. Now, we are left begging for her right to live.”

In a Gaza stripped of its lifelines, Batoul is a haunting symbol, of stolen futures, shattered classrooms, and a world that continues to watch in silence.