“The sky was full of buzzing drones. I saw a young man fall to the ground near me. Blood was gushing from his neck. I heard a woman scream: ‘Help me!’, but no one went near her. Fear had taken over.”
This is what my husband, Abdullah, told me about what happened when Israeli forces opened fire on him and thousands of other people who went to try to retrieve food from one of the distribution sites run by the so-called Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF).
As of 18 June, over 400 people had been killed and thousands of others wounded trying to obtain aid from these sites since they began operating on 27 May, and the casualties continue to mount each day.
Before my husband set out on 10 June, he knew it would be dangerous. But after hesitating for weeks, we had no other choice left. The last grains of rice and lentils that we had been rationing had run out, and there was nothing left in the house where we are currently staying to cook for our five children.
After Israel closed the border crossings to Gaza in early March, allowing nothing to enter, my family – like most families in Gaza – relied mainly on aid parcels we had previously received from UNRWA (the UN’s agency for Palestine refugees), the World Food Programme, and other international organisations.
These parcels included everything we needed: food supplies, hygiene products, and even vegetables. But the supplies quickly dwindled. Within less than a month, we had almost nothing left. We then began bartering the remaining food items we had with neighbours – exchanging sugar for flour, or cooking oil for rice. On some days, we had nothing but bread and tea to eat.
The food shortage affected us both physically and mentally: All of my family members and I lost a significant amount of weight; we constantly felt exhausted; and tensions at home grew as we struggled to meet our basic needs. Eventually, I had to reduce my children’s meals to just one per day. For poorer families, even that single meal was not guaranteed. And those with enough money to afford the very high prices have also not been spared because most items in the market are sold out.
That is why my husband decided to take the risk to head to one of the small handful of distribution centres run by the GHF. The one he went to is located in the Netzarim Corridor: an Israeli military road and buffer zone – constructed over demolished neighbourhoods that once buzzed with life – that now cuts Gaza in half.
The journey was extremely dangerous. Would he be shot by the Israeli army? Or assaulted and robbed by the armed gangs that are now widespread across Gaza? Or was the sky that never ceases to rain down Israeli bombs and missiles on Gaza’s residents the biggest threat?
“I knew I might not return alive, but I had no other choice. Either I go or we die of hunger,” he told me before he left in a tone I had never heard from him before.
Chaos and bullets
Thinking only of our children’s hunger, my husband left the house wearing an empty backpack that he planned to fill with food. He travelled 15 kilometres from al-Nasr, a neighbourhood west of Gaza City to the centre of the Gaza Strip using a dilapidated donkey-drawn cart because there is no more fuel for vehicles. He then walked another two kilometres on foot over rough terrain.
The journey, as my husband described it, was lonely and eerie. The roads were lined on both sides by destroyed homes. As he approached the aid centre, he saw a massive crowd of people waiting to be allowed entry to receive food. Within minutes, as the crowd began to surge forward, the Israeli military opened fire, killing at least 17 people to stop the crush.
My husband tried to flee to save himself from the bullets, but the desperate crowd continued rushing toward the distribution centre to try to get food. He decided to move forward with it.
At the entrance of the centre, he found himself trapped in a maze of iron corridors leading to a large open area that contained a few hundred food parcels in the middle, surrounded by thousands of people – as if it were a battle for survival.
“I was flying with joy, holding the parcel like it was my soul. I imagined the moment I would walk into the house and see my children jumping toward me in excitement.”
“There was no distribution mechanism, no organization, no supervisors: just chaos,” my husband said. “People were pushing, tearing food out of each other’s hands. There were women, men, elderly people, and children. I’ve never seen anything like it. Within barely 10 minutes, all the parcels were gone.”
Despite everything, he managed to get one food parcel after an exhausting struggle. It contained several items, most importantly sugar, oil, dates, sardines, and rice. He felt like he was carrying treasure on his back.
“I was flying with joy, holding the parcel like it was my soul. I imagined the moment I would walk into the house and see my children jumping toward me in excitement,” he told me.
But the dream didn’t last.
“Take half, take more”
On his way back, as he was passing through the Tel al-Hawa neighbourhood of Gaza City, members of an armed gang emerged from the ruins of the destroyed houses. Several of them were carrying knives, and at least one had a pistol.
Gangs of unidentified youths have emerged recently in many parts of Gaza, stealing aid from people who manage to get some supplies from the GHF and reselling it at extortionate prices.
“One of them said: ‘Leave the parcel or I’ll stab you’. I tried to bargain, I said: ‘Take half, take more’. But they shouted: ‘All of it, or the stab,’” he recounted. He had no choice but to leave the parcel behind.
“My children were waiting for me at the door. I couldn’t bring myself to look them in the eyes. I felt like I had failed them.”
At the end of the day, he returned home, dragging his feet and carrying nothing but a heart heavy with defeat. “My children were waiting for me at the door,” he said, fighting back tears. “I couldn’t bring myself to look them in the eyes. I felt like I had failed them.”
Seeing my husband in such distress made me remember what our life was like before this war. We were a simple family, living in a small apartment in Gaza City. My husband and I, both journalists, worked hard to secure a decent future for our children. We laughed a lot, ate together, and dreamed of better days. We didn’t have much, but we had enough food, safety, and dignity.
Today, everything has changed. Even since the last time I wrote for The New Humanitarian, we have been displaced again. We had been staying on the ground floor of the building where our apartment had been. I was already nervous that the building might collapse because of damage from an airstrike, and then it was further damaged when another Israeli bombardment hit a nearby residential building.
We are now living, temporarily, in a small house that belongs to a friend who fled Gaza with her family at the beginning of the war. This is the eleventh time we've moved between houses and shelters in the past 20 months.
An exhausting struggle
Gaza’s population of 2.1 million is currently experiencing the harshest stage of forced displacement since the start of the war, crammed into just 18% of the strip’s 365 square kilometres.
The area where we are staying is more crowded than ever. In every house that is still habitable, two families – sometimes more – are now living together. The streets and alleys are packed with tents, and people are sleeping on the ground in front of buildings and among the rubble. Everywhere you look, there are children, women, and elderly people trying to cope with the situation. There is no privacy anymore – families are crammed together, and basic facilities like toilets are shared by dozens of households.
People are exhausted and tense. Some try to maintain a spirit of solidarity – neighbours share what little food and water they have – but at the same time, frequent disputes erupt due to psychological pressure and the lack of resources. On the streets, it’s rare to see a smiling face. Everyone is preoccupied with survival, trying to secure a single meal for their children. The overcrowding, fear, and deprivation have turned daily life into an exhausting struggle for all.
What hurts me most wasn’t the lack of food, but the look of defeat in my husband’s eyes. This man, who always strove for us, returned bent over, holding nothing but words of apology for his children. I never imagined we’d live through days like these – even in our worst nightmares.
We still haven’t received any food aid. We are forced to buy whatever basic goods are available – rice and pasta – but at extremely high prices. Before Israel imposed the total blockade in early March, a kilo of rice cost around $2. Now, it sells for around $20. A kilo of flour used to cost just 30 cents. Now, it’s sold for $10. My family needs two kilos of flour daily to prepare just one meal.
Because of all this, my husband is seriously considering returning to the aid distribution centre run by the GHF. This time, he plans to go with a group of his friends to avoid being robbed again – as the gangs tend to target those walking alone.
Not a solution
My husband’s story is far from unique. It’s just one of thousands that reveal the brutal reality of an aid distribution mechanism run under deadly chaos, with the backing of the US and Israel, with no regard for human dignity.
I’ve spoken with other men and women who returned from the aid distribution centres breathless – not because they received assistance, but because they ran for their lives. One elderly man, Mohammed Ziyad, told me: “I went to look for a food parcel to feed my grandchildren. Their father was killed in an Israeli airstrike in December 2024. But I came back with a bullet wound in my leg.”
Still, the GHF is the only remaining option for us to get food. It does not resemble organisations that we know and trust, such as UNRWA, which – despite the criticism it has faced – is still seen as “one of us” because it is an institution born of the Nakba in 1948.
The GHF says it is here to help. But its public messaging is full of shocking lies. The reality is that you might die by gunfire while trying to survive hunger. This foundation is not a solution to hunger but a mechanism for managing it.
People in Gaza don’t think much about the foundation’s administrative structure or who funds it. They judge it by their lived experience: Were you humiliated in line? Did you feel like prey to a swarm of cameras? Or simply, did you make it back alive?
Edited by Eric Reidy.
