The Electronic Intifada 12 June 2025
Displaced Palestinians have sought refuge at Gaza’s port, where they are enduring harsh conditions in makeshift tents erected along the coastline and public squares in the west of the city, 8 June 2025.
APA imagesAt the beginning of April, I was catching up with my friend Mahmoud who had relocated to Beit Lahiya after Israel bombed and destroyed his home in Jabaliya.
Mahmoud and I spoke over WhatsApp instead of in person, as reaching Beit Lahiya in the north isn’t easy – transportation is scarce and expensive due to Israel’s restrictions on fuel entry, and it’s a long distance from where I live in central Gaza, in al-Daraj neighborhood.
Mahmoud told me about how Israel has made northern Gaza unlivable. The homes have been destroyed, the infrastructure collapsed and the people face severe shortages of water and electricity.
For over a year after 7 October 2023, around 450,000 people refused to relocate to southern Gaza and remained in the northern parts of the Strip, which include the governorates of North Gaza and Gaza City.
The Israeli army continued to force those who remained in the North Gaza governorate – including Jabaliya, Beit Hanoun and Beit Lahiya – to evacuate toward central Gaza City.
Residential areas in the Gaza City governorate – including Tal al-Hawa, al-Rimal, Beach refugee camp, al-Naser, the western part of al-Sheikh Radwan, al-Tuffah, Shujaiya and parts of al-Zaytoon – were largely emptied as the population was pushed inward.
Most of the population was crammed into the central neighborhoods in Gaza City – including al-Sabra, al-Saha in the Old City, al-Daraj and the eastern part of al-Sheikh Radwan.
There was widespread destruction of homes and buildings, and the streets were filled with rubble.
But people could still find a corner inside a bombed-out building or an abandoned house to shelter in until its owners came back.
It was enough at that time. Tents weren’t yet necessary.
But after Israel broke the ceasefire on 18 March, every part of northern Gaza was packed with tents – there was no empty street, no open space, and it remains that way.
Tents are no longer a backup – they are a lifeline. People struggle to find even a small spot to set one up.
A tent on a sewage station
As the conversation between me and Mahmoud went on, he mentioned Wael al-Mashi, 45, and Muhammad Abu Kallousa, 29.
They were his neighbors back in Jabaliya before they were forced to flee in the early days of the war.
Wael took his family and sheltered at a school in Maghazi refugee camp, then moved to a hospital in Deir al-Balah, and later set up a tent along a sidewalk in Rafah.
Muhammad also endured life in tents as he moved from Nuseirat to Rafah and eventually to Khan Younis.
Wael and Muhammad returned to northern Gaza in January when people were allowed, after the ceasefire took effect.
I also reached both Wael and Muhammad by phone to hear their stories.
Wael found his home in Jabaliya reduced to rubble. He set up a tent near his destroyed house in an area called al-Jora, located between Jabaliya and Beit Lahiya.
The name of this place, al-Jora – meaning “the hole” – mirrors its grim reality, as it sits on land that once housed the site of a station used to pump sewage out of the area.
“If the sewage overflows, it will flood the tents,” Wael said.
Despite the danger, Wael refuses to leave. “We want to stay close to what’s left of our home,” he insisted. “We can’t live anywhere else.”
But al-Jora isn’t recognized as an official shelter, neither by local authorities nor international organizations.
“No one even sees us,” Wael said. “This place doesn’t exist to the world.”
Before the war, Wael owned several motorcycles, which he used to operate a small delivery business. He managed the business from his office, while other drivers worked for him. The income was enough to support his family.
“I lost it all – the business, the motorcycles and the money I had invested.”
Like many others, Wael and his family – for months and still – rely entirely on charity.
“If someone donates food, we eat. If not, we go hungry. Drinking water comes from a delivery truck that might arrive every two days, if it comes at all.”
They walk nearly a kilometer every day to Kamal Adwan Hospital to get a few liters of water to bathe, wash their clothes and clean dishes back in their tent.
They also charge their phones – their only source of light at night – for two shekels each (about 55 cents).
“Living in these tents is hell,” Wael said. “Flies bite us during the day. Mosquitos bite us at night. There’s no rest.”
A tent within a house
“After returning to northern Gaza,” Muhammad said, “I stayed in what remained of my house in Jabaliya alongside 11 members of my extended family.”
They covered the destroyed walls with some fabric and sheets. Their house now feels like a tent.
“The heat inside the house during the summer days is unbearable,” he said. “We can’t stay inside.”
“But when it rains, we can’t stay outside, so we have to go inside the house.”
Staying inside the house isn’t any better. Rainwater leaks in from every corner covered with the sheets.
“You’re cold, soaked and trapped. That’s why winter makes life in the house impossible.”
Muhammad, Wael, their families and many of the displaced people rely almost entirely on charity kitchens.
“A kilo of wood would cost almost four shekels ($1.10),” Muhammad said. “How would I afford to buy wood while not working and having no source of income?”
Nowhere to go
On 10 April, I took my 2-year-old daughter Lya to a nutrition center at al-Daraj school, located almost a kilometer away from my home, to receive high-energy biscuits and nutritional supplements.
Since the war erupted, the school has been turned into a shelter by many people who lost their homes.
A place once dedicated to students and learning had become a shelter for countless displaced families.
People were living in tents next to toilets and trash bins.
Clothes hung from every corner – walls, stairs, shattered windows. Women cooked over woodfires beside their makeshift homes. Some people tried to sell basic goods from within their shelters.
I couldn’t identify the place – was it a school, shelter, clinic or market?
After the people returned from the southern parts, I walked several times through al-Wehda Street, near Yarmouk Stadium in the middle of Gaza City.
It used to be empty and spacious.
Yet, with the recent Israeli attack on the Shujaiya neighborhood and the renewed evacuation orders, many have fled their homes once again, seeking shelter in schools or pitching tents directly on sidewalks.
It is nearly impossible to walk now, let alone drive.
When these families are asked why they have settled here, their answer is simple: Where else can we go?
Noor Alyacoubi is a writer in Gaza.
