In the heart of Louisville, Kentucky, a story of resilience, generosity, and global crisis unfolded earlier this year—one that now stands in sharp contrast to recent policy changes in the United States. On August 27, 2025, the U.S. State Department made a controversial decision to pause approval of visas for medically vulnerable children from Gaza seeking treatment in the U.S. The move, prompted in part by criticism from a right-wing activist and broader political debate, has left many families and aid organizations in limbo, according to reporting from NPR and Louisville Public Media.
Before the pause, a small but impactful program quietly operated, offering a lifeline to children who had endured the unimaginable. Among them was six-year-old Saher Qahwaji, whose journey from the war-torn streets of Gaza to the supportive embrace of Louisville’s medical community captured both the heartbreak and hope of this initiative. Saher’s story, as recounted by reporter Amina Elahi for NPR, is emblematic of the stakes involved and the human faces behind policy headlines.
In July 2024, Saher’s world was shattered when an Israeli military bombing struck the neighborhood in Gaza where his family was taking refuge with relatives. The attack, which the Israel Defense Forces stated was targeting Hamas infrastructure, cost Saher much of his right leg and took the life of his infant brother. The trauma forced Saher’s mother, Eman, to make an agonizing decision: she left behind her husband and two older sons to bring Saher to the United States, hoping for a chance at recovery that seemed impossible back home.
"I was overwhelmed by the amount of welcoming that I found here—the love that I see," Eman Qahwaji shared through an interpreter, reflecting on the kindness shown by Louisville’s residents. The warmth of the community was more than emotional support; it was material and practical. Local families opened their homes to Saher and his mother, while a network of medical professionals rallied to provide care, all at no cost to the family.
Central to Saher’s rehabilitation was Wayne Luckett, co-owner of Louisville Prosthetics. Luckett, moved by Saher’s plight, donated a custom-fit prosthetic leg—a device that would normally cost around $10,000. “Well, it seemed like the right thing to do more than anything,” Luckett told NPR. He quickly took to Saher, who earned the affectionate nickname "Little Bunny" for the way he hopped on one leg before receiving his prosthetic.
For Saher, adapting to the new limb was a journey marked by determination and support. Physical therapy sessions became scenes of both hard work and joy, as he practiced taking stairs and even slid down the clinic’s big green slide—moments that, for a child, are as vital as any medical milestone. “So me seeing Saher is adjusting to the new limb—it made me happy. It made me happy and relieved,” Eman said, echoing the relief felt by parents everywhere when their child finds a path forward after tragedy.
The need for such interventions is staggering. In June 2025, a United Nations agency reported that 6,000 people in Gaza required prosthetic services, with nearly a quarter of all amputations performed on children. The scale of the crisis is daunting, with war and blockade making access to advanced medical care nearly impossible for most families. According to the Ohio-based nonprofit Heal Palestine, which recently brought 11 children to the U.S. for care and has helped about 60 children since the previous year, the demand far outstrips the capacity of existing programs.
Dr. Zeena Salman, co-founder of Heal Palestine, emphasized the broader losses these children endure. “Many of these children are orphaned or have lost a sibling or a parent, and yet they're considered lucky,” Dr. Salman told NPR. The organization’s efforts, she explained, are about more than physical healing—they aim to restore some semblance of childhood for kids who have lost so much.
Yet, the challenges don’t end with the fitting of a prosthetic. Pediatric patients like Saher typically require frequent follow-ups as they grow, with adjustments to the limb every few months. “Four months, eight months, 12 months later, we're going to be needing something, whether it's a length adjustment, a bigger foot, a longer socket,” Luckett explained. But because Saher was required to leave the U.S., his ongoing care will be managed by his mother, who was provided with extra liners and a longer shin tube to make basic adjustments as her son grows. It’s a stopgap solution, born of necessity rather than best practice.
Luckett, reflecting on the broader need, expressed hope that after the war, amputees in Gaza will benefit from practitioners using scalable methods like 3D printing technology. “With 3D printing technology, could be a game changer,” he said, envisioning a future where prosthetics are more accessible and affordable for those in need.
The decision to pause the visa program has sparked debate and concern among humanitarian organizations and medical professionals. Critics argue that halting the program denies vulnerable children access to life-changing care and undermines America’s longstanding reputation as a haven for those in need. Supporters of the pause, pointing to concerns about security and resource allocation, contend that the U.S. must prioritize its own challenges and vet such programs more rigorously.
For families like the Qahwajis, these debates are anything but abstract. The opportunity to access world-class medical care, even briefly, can mean the difference between a life of mobility and one of permanent disability. The community response in Louisville stands as a testament to the power of grassroots action, even as broader policy decisions threaten to close doors for others in similar situations.
As the humanitarian crisis in Gaza continues and the political landscape in the U.S. shifts, the fate of medically vulnerable children seeking care abroad remains uncertain. What’s clear is that behind every policy are real people—children like Saher, mothers like Eman, and communities willing to step up when the world turns away. Their stories remind us that compassion, ingenuity, and solidarity can bridge even the widest divides, if only for a moment.
