"1:30 a.m. Surrounded by planes that won't let us sleep. Sometimes, amid the roar, other noises can be heard... closer, more terrifying. My children jump in fear and run to me. I promise them that we will soon be out of this prison. That soon we will be free. But every night, while they try to sleep, I think what more can I do to get out of this hell. How to get food for tomorrow. How to find cash, which here becomes an almost impossible task. It hurts to lose so much money in the exchange, 50%, but I do it for survival. We are all the same here."
This is what the intensive care specialist doctor trapped in Gaza has just written with these words.
But the doctor is no longer a doctor. His hospital was bombed. The Nasser hospital, on the front line. They bombed his other hospital where he worked without pay. The European hospital. He was inside. They closed it. They bombed his first house in Jan Yunis, and his second, and his third, and his fourth. He has had to move nine times with his wife and children. They bombed his school. They bomb the building in front and the one next door. And the doctor is now a nomad in search of cash and food among the ruins of Gaza. Doctor Refaat Alathamna is now a shield for his five offspring. He is Palestinian and Bolivian, and as a Bolivian citizen, he has been requesting, begging, demanding for a year and 10 months to be taken out of Gaza, in that warm and courteous Spanish he learned at the age of 19 at the Christian University of Santa Cruz (Bolivia), where he graduated in Medicine, worked, got married, lived for nine years (two more in Argentina), and obtained Bolivian nationality. A nationality that should save his life, and yet, papers upon papers, documents upon documents in the midst of a massacre that should expedite the procedures at the Bolivian chancellery for nothing. Netanyahu confirmed this past Sunday his final offensive of occupation, and the doctor and his family are still there. Why?
"It frustrates me when they ask me for patience," says this man with a calm demeanor that is starting to wear thin, "there is nothing here. No schools. No jobs. No security. No food. No chicken. No fish. No eggs. Not a single chicken in all of Gaza. Everything is destroyed. Some lamb. At $200 per kilo. People look, but don't buy. How? Some cucumbers, some cans of chickpeas with prices multiplied by 20 or more. A kilo of tomatoes, $30. They ask me how we are. We are not well. Psychologically exhausted. We are trapped in Gaza."
Before May 24, 2024, it was still possible to leave the Strip by one's means. If you had money, of course. "During the first months after the start of the war, the border was still open for those who could pay. $3,000 per child and between $5,000 and $7,000 per adult. That is, $14,000 for my wife and me, $15,000 for our five children. I needed $30,000, and I didn't have it. If I had had it, we would have left. I could have sold my house, but it was destroyed. I could have sold my car, but it was destroyed. As for my salary as a doctor at the hospital, I only received 40%, and the rest was kept by the government. Just enough to survive. I asked for financial help from the Bolivian embassy, and they said they didn't have resources. Then the borders were closed."
And since then, no one can enter or leave Gaza, surrounded by a wall and a sea also monitored. A deadly trap subjected to constant attacks and famine since the end of May 2025, when Israel also blocked the entry of food by UNRWA and instead set up four megacenters of aid managed by mercenaries, where more than 1,000 people have been killed. The most hungry. Those who cannot find another way to survive.
"I don't go to those points because they kill us. Or they assault us if we manage to get something. There is no security. Everything is destroyed. Everything is chaos. Here, every day upon waking up is a great struggle. Because you have to get everything every day. All the basics. Two months ago, we managed to rent an apartment in the Maghazi refugee camp for which we paid $800 without any services, no water, no electricity. I have to fetch water every day. One for bathing, one for washing, one for drinking. I have to find wood to make a fire. Most of us have a car battery that we recharge daily to have some light. There is no market here, just some stalls run by young boys selling certain things they find on the street."
"And we are doing all this, every day, under attacks, under bombings, hearing bad news every day about known victims: relatives, friends, coworkers. Waiting for the good news of a ceasefire that never arrives," he says.
Gaza: the most expensive city in the world, where Doctor Refaat and his family can survive thanks to private donations and the 'Hola Gaza' foundation by Lorena Santana. A guardian angel with character. "If it weren't for these donations, we would be dead," he insists on thanking through his tireless work on social media. To Chile, Mexico, Costa Rica, Argentina, Panama, Venezuela, Spain. Instagram and TikTok: the only open doors to the world, but you can't escape through them.
"Last night I heard screams where my children were. I went thinking the worst (snipers, a drone, a collapse) because the attacks happen day and night. And it was a flying cockroach. That's what I am. A hunter of flying cockroaches," he smiles.
"That will be my struggle. To get out of Gaza," he says.
"In the emergency room, we classify patients by colors. Red, yellow, green. How many hours can they hold on. If it's serious, we have to act immediately. And this case is extremely red."
"I ask Spain to help me save the only thing I have left, which are my children. To get us out of this hell. I want to arrive and live a dignified and safe life, where I can provide them with everything they need and where they can grow up and serve the country where they will be. I have five very young children, 12, 10, eight, six, and four years old. Three girls and two boys. I am an experienced doctor and I am in the process of homologating my degree to be able to work," he calls out to the authorities, to the King, to anyone who can help.
And yet, amidst the barbarity, after having seen "patients arriving at the hospital with their intestines out, with their brains out, kids without arms, without limbs and worst of all, invalids and orphans at the same time," this family continues to seek calm, moments of peace.
"Hello. How are you? Here's another day in Gaza with my children," she says in a video. "They're happy because we got five eggs. We haven't seen an egg for more than three or four months. So, okay. They're all laughing, happy with the eggs. But look how much they cost. They're Creole eggs. An egg costs 20 shekels (Israeli currency), which is about eight dollars. Today is Saturday, another day in Gaza. We're going through the worst of it. Take care."