Biden’s Broken Promises: Gaza’s Rafah Crossing Still a Humanitarian Disaster

Paul Riverbank, 2/8/2026Rafah crossing's recent reopening offers a glimmer of hope for Gazans in desperate need of medical care, yet the reality is stark: only a fraction of patients can pass through. As families cling to slim chances, the uncertainty and bureaucratic hurdles define life at this critical border.

As days ticked by, the scale of movement became apparent. According to UN data, during the first four days after Rafah’s reopening, barely three dozen patients and a handful more companions made it through to Egypt. In a region where need outpaces supply by lung-bursting margins, that’s a drop in an ocean—20,000 names vying for less than a hundred slots. Rafah, it turned out, is less an open door than a peep-hole.

For some, like Amjad Abu Jedian, getting on the exit list was a saga stretching back weeks. When his chance finally arrived, the relief was short-lived: only five were allowed to cross that morning, and he wasn’t among them. His mother, Raja, paced the gravel outside, her voice carrying the exhaustion of many before her. “Just let those who need medical care go. Don’t make it harder.” Her remarks caught somewhere between resignation and the faintest strand of hope.

It’s never a straight line at the crossing. The gates swing open and slam shut, often without notice. Friday’s promise turned by dusk into another two-day closure—the kind of whiplash routine that’s ground down so many spirits in Gaza’s southern edge. On Sunday, Amjad’s name resurfaced atop a new World Health Organization list, but by evening he was still waiting for that call to come.

Returning home has its own obstacles. Egyptian state news occasionally features neat rows of returnees waiting in limbo, but those in line know any “progress” can swerve suddenly. The crossing’s authority is a patchwork: Palestinian officials execute the day-to-day, a rotating EU mission pops in, and yet the most powerful lever sits away from the border—Israel’s screenings, now more complex since their military presence moved in on the Gaza side.

Every step, every list, every hour spent by families waiting outside Khan Younis’s Red Crescent hospital, makes plain the stakes: there’s no guarantee, not even for the most urgent cases. The Rafah terminal, once a rarely scrutinized backdoor, has now become a vivid theater of the stalemate—neither open nor closed, but constantly contested. Before the war, this was the only crossing not policed directly by Israel. That distinction vanished in May, leaving yet another layer of checkpoints, permission slips, and suspicion.

The push to reopen Rafah owed something to the constant battery of international phone calls and envoys shuttling between capitals, but diplomacy matters little when back on the street, hundreds camp out with paper files clutched in hand as lists are re-written by unseen officials. Some names are scrawled on in the morning, only to be scratched off by afternoon.

“Maybe tomorrow,” one father told me quietly, standing beside his son’s wheelchair as the sun dipped behind the fence last Saturday. The optimism in Gaza can sometimes feel like an act of protest.

For now, the gates have swung open once again. There’s no telling for how long. What’s certain is that the waiting, the uncertainty, and the hope — often frayed, sometimes only whispered — will continue to define life on the southern edge of Gaza, as it has for months. And behind every number in a UN spreadsheet, there’s a story of someone still hoping to hear their name called.

If you stood by the concrete gates at Rafah early last Thursday, past the battered ambulances and dust-covered luggage, you would have seen something rare: relief flickering on tired faces as Gaza’s most contested crossing opened for a few dozen departures. For the families clinging to hospital letters from months ago and little else, it was a break in the siege — if only for a moment.As days ticked by, the scale of movement became apparent. According to UN data, during the first four days after Rafah’s reopening, barely three dozen patients and a handful more companions made it through to Egypt. In a region where need outpaces supply by lung-bursting margins, that’s a drop in an ocean—20,000 names vying for less than a hundred slots. Rafah, it turned out, is less an open door than a peep-hole.For some, like Amjad Abu Jedian, getting on the exit list was a saga stretching back weeks. When his chance finally arrived, the relief was short-lived: only five were allowed to cross that morning, and he wasn’t among them. His mother, Raja, paced the gravel outside, her voice carrying the exhaustion of many before her. “Just let those who need medical care go. Don’t make it harder.” Her remarks caught somewhere between resignation and the faintest strand of hope.It’s never a straight line at the crossing. The gates swing open and slam shut, often without notice. Friday’s promise turned by dusk into another two-day closure—the kind of whiplash routine that’s ground down so many spirits in Gaza’s southern edge. On Sunday, Amjad’s name resurfaced atop a new World Health Organization list, but by evening he was still waiting for that call to come.Returning home has its own obstacles. Egyptian state news occasionally features neat rows of returnees waiting in limbo, but those in line know any “progress” can swerve suddenly. The crossing’s authority is a patchwork: Palestinian officials execute the day-to-day, a rotating EU mission pops in, and yet the most powerful lever sits away from the border—Israel’s screenings, now more complex since their military presence moved in on the Gaza side.Every step, every list, every hour spent by families waiting outside Khan Younis’s Red Crescent hospital, makes plain the stakes: there’s no guarantee, not even for the most urgent cases. The Rafah terminal, once a rarely scrutinized backdoor, has now become a vivid theater of the stalemate—neither open nor closed, but constantly contested. Before the war, this was the only crossing not policed directly by Israel. That distinction vanished in May, leaving yet another layer of checkpoints, permission slips, and suspicion.The push to reopen Rafah owed something to the constant battery of international phone calls and envoys shuttling between capitals, but diplomacy matters little when back on the street, hundreds camp out with paper files clutched in hand as lists are re-written by unseen officials. Some names are scrawled on in the morning, only to be scratched off by afternoon.“Maybe tomorrow,” one father told me quietly, standing beside his son’s wheelchair as the sun dipped behind the fence last Saturday. The optimism in Gaza can sometimes feel like an act of protest.For now, the gates have swung open once again. There’s no telling for how long. What’s certain is that the waiting, the uncertainty, and the hope — often frayed, sometimes only whispered — will continue to define life on the southern edge of Gaza, as it has for months. And behind every number in a UN spreadsheet, there’s a story of someone still hoping to hear their name called.