Two months after Israel launched a ground invasion of Rafah, more than a million Palestinians have been displaced from the Gaza Strip’s southernmost city, while the accompanying disruption to aid efforts has pushed many nearer to starvation.
The New Humanitarian recently spoke to five Palestinians who were displaced from Rafah to understand how Israel’s invasion has affected them and their ability to secure the basic necessities they need to survive.
“Rafah is my hometown. My entire life is there,” said Rami Abu Abulenein, 47. “The [Israeli military] destroyed the residential tower where I rented my apartment, leaving me with only a few belongings that I managed to save when I was forced to evacuate. Even if the war ends, I won’t have a place to live.”
Abu Abulenein is now staying in a small tent with his wife, their eight children, and his mother in a collection of makeshift shelters housing other displaced people next to the road connecting the districts of Khan Younis and Deir al-Balah.
The areas of Gaza where people displaced from Rafah have been forced to seek shelter have largely been laid to waste by Israeli bombardment and earlier ground invasions. Many have also gone to al-Mawasi, a strip of land along the coast mostly made up of sand dunes. Despite unilaterally declaring it a ‘humanitarian zone’, the Israeli military has continued to carry out airstrikes in the area.
The people The New Humanitarian spoke to all live in small, overcrowded shelters, without consistent access to clean water, basic hygiene, and privacy.
Their days are mostly filled with trying to find food and struggling to comprehend the calamity that has befallen them.
They described lives devoid of any sense of normalcy. “I am always hungry, thirsty, and in desperate need of clothes. All I can do is cry,” said Jana Hassan, 11.
Their responses have been edited for length and clarity.
Amani Abdeen, 27, is married and has two children – a four-year-old named Hammam, and a two-year-old named Habiba. She has a degree in clinical psychology from al-Aqsa University in Gaza.
Abdeen and her family used to live in the Tel al-Sultan neighbourhood of Rafah. Now, she lives with her husband, two children, her husband’s parents, and his siblings and their families on the beach in al-Mawasi.
Like so many others, the only shelter Abdeen and her family have is a small, weak, makeshift tent. The thin fabric and light nylon covering the structure provides no protection from the scorching sun.
The New Humanitarian: How did the Israeli invasion of Rafah affect you?
Abdeen: The invasion of Rafah turned our lives upside down and stripped us of our last sense of being human. In Rafah, we lived on the bare minimum, but at least we could find water and we had alternative energy sources, like solar panels. Life was difficult, but we tried to adapt.
After the invasion, we lost the simplest but most necessary things. We now live directly on the shore without a bathroom or kitchen, just a piece of cloth that barely shields us from the scorching sun.
The New Humanitarian: Where do you live now, and what are your living conditions?
Abdeen: Here, in al-Mawasi, we have nothing. It was the only spot we could come to, and despite the terrible overcrowding, I consider myself lucky because others remain on the streets for days before they find shelter.
I feel as if I’m serving a prison sentence. I sleep and wake up under tragic conditions – without a bed, covers, clean clothes, a proper kitchen, or a bathroom. I don’t have enough space to stretch my legs or even sit down comfortably. Every detail of life is an ordeal.
The New Humanitarian: How do you spend your days?
Abdeen: I wake up every morning covered in sand and wait in a queue to use the toilet. The struggle to have breakfast begins with figuring out how to cook without gas, so our options are limited to zaatar [ground thyme and sesame seeds], olive oil, and some tea.
Then I prepare the dough to bake bread. I cut and roll it and then head to a public clay oven to bake bread daily. We fetch water directly from the sea to wash clothes and dishes and to bathe. Most of the time, we resort to a nearby soup kitchen for all our other meals.
I try, but it is futile to clean the space we live in because of the sand. I don’t plan anything in advance, and our days all look the same.
The New Humanitarian: Can you get food and basic necessities? If so, how?
Abdeen: We get the bare minimum to survive, and even if we have ingredients to cook, there is no cooking gas to cook it. All we’ve had for months is canned beans, chickpeas, and other canned foods.
Malnutrition hasn’t only led to weight loss, it has also stunted the growth of our children.
We registered with UNRWA (the UN agency for Palestine refugees) but are still waiting to receive any aid. Sometimes we have no alternative but to get meals from the soup kitchen, but it is unclean and tastes terrible.
We can’t afford to buy vegetables because my husband is unemployed. Most of the time we are starving.
Mohammed Abu Hilal, 43, is married with five children. He holds a bachelor’s degree in medical laboratory science from al-Azhar University in Gaza, where he worked as a clinical pathologist. He used to live with his family in a 230-square-metre apartment in the western part of Rafah.
That all changed when the Israeli military launched its ground invasion of Rafah. Abu Hilal and his family were forced to flee. They now live in tents and makeshift shelters with around 35 people – including Abu Hilal’s parents, siblings, and their families – on agricultural land to the west of the city of Khan Younis.
When The New Humanitarian spoke to him, Abu Hilal was dressed in a cotton jalabiya that hung loosely from his body because of how much weight he has lost. He was drenched in sweat from the heat, and he was trying to keep his young children and nephews from eating food that had fallen on the ground and was covered with sand.
The New Humanitarian: How did the Israeli invasion of Rafah affect you?
Abu Hilal: The impact of the Israeli invasion was severe. When their armed forces dropped leaflets demanding our evacuation, our lives turned into a nightmare. We lost our homes and work. I was very busy even after the war started and continued to work out of my own laboratory. But suddenly my life turned upside down.
I had a large apartment and another to host guests. We had everything we needed, like solar energy for electricity and a large water tank. But we lost all of it. We also lost our privacy. We went from a life of relative comfort to being displaced with nothing.
The New Humanitarian: Where do you live now, and what are your living conditions?
Abu Hilal: I now live in a tent with my wife and five children on a sandy wasteland under unbearably hot conditions with insects, rodents, and reptiles all around us. The two public bathrooms are neither equipped nor clean as they serve 35 people, including children. We struggle for basics like water for bathing, washing, and cleaning dishes – but most of all for drinking. In the 21st century, we live in primitive conditions, making life a continuous hell. Everything is polluted and filled with sand and mosquitoes.
The New Humanitarian: How do you spend your days?
Abu Hilal: I spend my time thinking about how this calamity befell us and about our fate. Will we survive the Israeli bombs? Will our homes, properties, and sources of livelihood be destroyed? I think about my children’s future. How will they reclaim their future after the destruction of their universities and schools?
My day begins with the dawn prayer. Then I listen to the news on the radio, and in the rare times when the internet is available, I browse the news online. At sunrise, we delegate tasks. Some look for clean drinking water to buy, at a very high price, to avoid diseases caused by contaminated water. Others are tasked with finding food or firewood as cooking gas is rarely available. I sometimes try to ease the harsh living conditions for my wife and children by talking to them or playing with the little ones.
Our daily routine before the war – at work, with friends and family – has turned into dark patches of boredom, despair, and frustration. Our only hope is to go back home, and our worst fear is that our home will no longer be there.
The New Humanitarian: Can you get food and basic necessities? If so, how?
Abu Hilal: I took the food we had at home before we were displaced. It was mainly canned food, which we have been consuming since the war started, despite the carcinogenic risks because some cans are expired. It’s a complete reversal of our normal diet and lacks all healthy nutritional components, like protein, healthy oils, and carbohydrates. Hepatitis and other diseases are spreading as a result of contaminated water and food.
Since my displacement, I received only one aid package from UNRWA, consisting of canned beans, peas, chickpeas, and processed meat. The children are tired of this food, but fresh and frozen red and white meats are unavailable. Most fruits are also unavailable, and vegetables are scarce and unaffordable to most people. I try to buy small amounts, but it’s not always possible.
Sometimes, we only dip bread in a mix of spices and olive oil. Before I was displaced, I could buy meat once or twice a month at most. Vegetables like potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, and zucchini are indispensable, so I have to buy them at a huge price along with other daily necessities.
Jana Hassan is only 11 years old. She is supposed to be in the fifth grade, but school has been cancelled for the approximately 625,000 school children in Gaza since 7 October.
Jana, her parents, and her three siblings used to live in an apartment in the western part of Gaza City. But her family has been displaced six times since Israel’s military campaign began. Most recently, they were living in a mosque in al-Shaboura refugee camp in Rafah. But Israel’s invasion of Rafah forced them to flee yet again.
Now, Jana and her family are living on a beach in the northern part of al-Mawasi. Their shelter is a makeshift tent covered with some blankets and fabric. Inside, the only household items are a few kitchen utensils, and they share a bathroom with several other families. Her parents were standing next to her when she spoke to The New Humanitarian.
The New Humanitarian: How did the Israeli invasion of Rafah affect you?
Hassan: When I learned that we will be displaced from Rafah, I cried for hours. I was used to the place we were before and had met many kind and generous people. Our life was easier in terms of finding food, water, and having electricity. I felt safe.
But the invasion sent us to an isolated area with no services, far from all the marketplaces. We live in a worn-out shelter with garbage all around us. I can’t play or sleep. My life is completely upside down, and my suffering is unbearable. I’m afraid of the sound of the waves when the wind intensifies at night.
The New Humanitarian: Where do you live now, and what are your living conditions?
Hassan: Our shelter isn’t like a tent. It’s made of flour sacks sewn together, offering no protection from the intense sun at noon. We are all crowded in the same place with no way to maintain personal hygiene because there is sand everywhere.
I live in hell, and always ask myself why I am here and what I did to deserve this. How can the world be silent about this crime against me and all these children? Does the world realise the extent of our suffering? Would anyone accept their child living in this filthy place?
I feel like a prisoner serving a hard labour sentence, but it is much worse than hard labour. It is the fire of hell burning with no hope of ever getting extinguished. I am always hungry, thirsty, and in desperate need of clothes. All I can do is cry.
The New Humanitarian: How do you spend your days?
Hassan: My days have no meaning, and time has no value. I wake up to pray at dawn, then I gather my sandy bedding to clean it, but the sand sticks to the mattress, to my clothes, and my body.
Sometimes I help my mother light the fire to cook if we have food. Sometimes I try to fetch drinking water in a small jerry can. Sometimes I gather garbage and move it far from our shelter. I spend time with my new friends playing simple games.
The New Humanitarian: Can you get food and basic necessities? If so, how?
Hassan: I never get enough food, just canned beans, chickpeas, and peas, which I am tired of eating because I’ve been eating them for months. I sometimes get dizzy and can’t walk because I don’t eat enough healthy food – no meat, vegetables, fruits, sweets, or any of the things we had before the war.
Since our displacement from Rafah, my father has received no aid, so he sometimes buys food or we get cooked meals from a soup kitchen, but it’s very bad in terms of quality, cleanliness, taste, and quantity. We are forced to eat it because there is no alternative.
If my stomach could speak, it would say, "Enough with the canned and dried food!”.
Rami Abu Abulenein, 47, lived in a house in al-Shaboura refugee camp in central Rafah before 7 October with his wife, eight children, and his mother. He worked in communication and public relations for the Palestinian Authority. The family’s home, however, was destroyed early on during Israel’s military campaign, forcing them to move to a rented apartment in eastern Rafah.
After Israel invaded Rafah, Abu Abulenein and his family were forced to flee for a second time. The apartment they had been staying in was shelled after they left. Now, the family lives in a small, makeshift shelter made out of worn-out fabric and transparent nylon. It is one of hundreds of similar dwellings housing displaced people clustered near the main road connecting Khan Younis and Deir al-Balah. The area is infested with flies and mosquitoes, and the sandy ground makes it impossible to feel clean.
When The New Humanitarian spoke to him, Abu Abulenein was returning to his tent after taking his wife and children to stay at his in-laws’ house in Khan Younis to escape the heat and dire living conditions. Abu Abulenein was desperately searching for water to bathe after walking four kilometres under the scorching sun.
The New Humanitarian: How did the Israeli invasion of Rafah affect you?
Abu Abulenein: The war devastated us, and the displacement cemented the endless torment. I used to live in an apartment with tiled walls and floors, furnished bedrooms, and a bathroom and kitchen. Now, I live in a place unfit for animals, let alone humans.
Rafah is my hometown. My entire life is there. The [Israeli military] destroyed the residential tower where I rented my apartment, leaving me with only a few belongings that I managed to save when I was forced to evacuate. Even if the war ends, I won’t have a place to live. I face a double loss: that of my apartment and all its contents.
The invasion [of Rafah] worsened my suffering in every way. Two of my children have liver and spleen disease, and the third has heart problems [that pre-date the war]. I was scheduled to travel with them for treatment outside Gaza, but when the Israeli army occupied the Rafah crossing [on 7 May], all travel was halted.
The New Humanitarian: Where do you live now, and what are your living conditions?
Abu Abulenein: I live in a small, makeshift shelter that cost me about $500 to set up, even though it is merely made out of wooden poles, fabric, and nylon, with a fabric curtain in the front to block the view from passersby.
It is extremely difficult for normal people to live like this, let alone my sick children, whose conditions have deteriorated. I had to move them to al-Aqsa Hospital for a while and then to their mother’s family home in Khan Younis temporarily until they recovered. The poor hygiene, nutrition, and contaminated water have taken a huge toll on them. We can’t sit, sleep, bathe, cook, or use the toilet. We live in constant misery and humiliation due to our forced displacement.
The New Humanitarian: How do you spend your days?
Abu Abulenein: Much of the day is spent securing clean drinking water and salty water for bathing and cleaning. I must either buy it or wait for hours for the free water distribution truck.
The other part of the day is spent securing food, particularly from the soup kitchen that sometimes offers cooked peas, rice, or beans. Even though it is unsuitable for my sick children, they must eat it because there is no other food or gas to cook with.
I also spend time registering for aid or looking for essential supplies at lower prices. This requires walking long distances to avoid exorbitant transportation costs. I regularly spend hours looking for medicines for my sick children and rushing them to hospital when there’s an emergency. It’s a constant routine of suffering.
The New Humanitarian: Can you get food and basic necessities? If so, how?
Abu Abulenein: I received very little real aid since coming here 40 days ago. Even UNRWA can’t help properly, given the size of the catastrophe that befell us after we were displaced. The decrease in aid entering Gaza directly affected displaced people from Rafah. I rely on occasionally buying overpriced supplies from the market and a soup kitchen that recently started operating near us and provides cooked meals made using canned ingredients.
We haven’t tasted meat, chicken, or fish since our displacement from Rafah. My family does not get its basic food needs because they are mostly unavailable in the market. Even when they are available, I cannot afford them on my limited resources, which have been drained by transportation and treatment costs for my children.
Khalil Abu Teima, 42, is now living in a small tent on the beach in al-Mawasi, north of Khan Younis, with his wife, seven children, and his mother. Before being displaced by Israel’s invasion of Rafah, the family lived in the Brazil neighbourhood of eastern Rafah. Abu Teima holds a bachelor’s degree in social development from al-Quds Open University in Gaza but struggled before the war to find consistent work.
When The New Humanitarian spoke with him, he was sitting with his youngest son, who is about two and a half, trying to distract him from vendors walking along the beach selling food and other items that Abu Teima cannot afford. The beach was crowded with people and makeshift shelters, and flies and garbage were everywhere.
The family did not have anywhere else they could go, but living on the beach does have one advantage: They are right next to the sea, where at least they can bathe and clean their dishes and clothes – even if it is only in salt water.
The New Humanitarian: How did the Israeli invasion of Rafah affect you?
Abu Teima: The anxiety caused by the war, and later by being forcibly displaced, has led to severe psychological pressure that manifested in a skin disease. I never imagined Rafah residents would be displaced, so I was shocked. I used to live in the comfort and privacy of my small house, but I am now homeless on a beach with nothing.
We all cried the moment we were forced to evacuate, not only because we were leaving our home, but also because we knew what lay in store for us. We witnessed the suffering of those who were displaced from the north of Gaza to Rafah and saw how their lives had deteriorated.
I prayed night and day to be spared from displacement, but the [Israeli military] occupation thrust me into a struggle I am unable to cope with because I cannot meet the needs of my family. The Israeli invasion is a catastrophe with immeasurable repercussions.
The New Humanitarian: Where do you live now, and what are your living conditions?
Abu Teima: Our makeshift shelter is made up of a few pieces of fabric supported by light wooden poles, which are likely to be uprooted by a strong wind. This is all I could afford with my limited resources. After living in a three-bedroom concrete apartment, I now suffer with sand everywhere. Imagine sleeping, waking, eating, and drinking with sand mixed in with everything. I have a constant fear of getting flooded by seawater if the tide changes and losing one of my young children. My wife and I take turns watching over them all night.
Our life here is like death, but with some minor differences, like breathing and walking. Otherwise, there is nothing related to human life. Despite the severe overcrowding, Rafah was paradise for us. Now, we live in hell.
The New Humanitarian: How do you spend your days?
Abu Teima: My days are spent trying to secure drinking water and food by any means possible. I go from place to place, from relief committees to medical committees, seeking food, clothes, and medicine. I look for cheap vegetables to supplement the canned food my children hate and refuse to eat unless they are extremely hungry.
The New Humanitarian: Can you get food and basic necessities? If so, how?
Abu Teima: I can’t get my basic food needs, only about 20% at best. Starvation does not only mean the availability or shortage of some items; it means that many other essential items are unavailable or unaffordable. Starvation means you get sick of eating canned food, which leads to a complete loss of appetite and total deterioration of your health, not just weight loss. Even worse is the mental breakdown, loss of concentration, mobility, memory, and endurance.
I have not received any real aid since arriving here. A friend gave me some canned food, and UNRWA gave us four packets of biscuits and two toilet rolls. Whenever possible, I must buy my own food from the market or queue for hours at a nearby soup kitchen for some beans and rice.
Even though I live by the sea, I can’t afford fish because it costs $35 per kilo. Fresh and frozen meat is rarely available, and when it is, I can’t afford it.
This piece was published in collaboration with Egab. Edited by Rania Elmalky and Eric Reidy.
