In the aftermath of a broken ceasefire, Palestinians in Gaza speak out about the trauma, loss, and fear they live with daily. Families recount the horrors of bombings, life in tents, and the silence of a world that watches but does not act. Through raw testimony and haunting imagery, this short film captures the reality of survival under siege—and the enduring dignity of a people who refuse to be erased.

Producers: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographers: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

MAMDOUH AHMED MORTAJA: 

More than 500 days have passed and this unjust world has watched our bodies being burned alive. 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

A girl asleep. In a tent, also. An air strike hit, her brain spilled out—she died on her mattress. What did this girl do? What crime did she commit? 

MUKARAM SA’AD MUSTAFA HLIWA: 

Two billion Muslims. Two billion Muslims are watching us. They could do something, but they do nothing. Where is the Arab world? Where is the Islamic world? Where is the Western world? While we are being killed daily. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

Destruction, terror, fear, humiliation. Faith only in God. As for faith in the end of the war—sadly, we’re not hopeful. 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

We were in the refugee camp, when we heard gunfire, bombs and the chaos that followed. We didn’t need anyone to tell us, at night, we woke up to gunfire and bombs. There were assassinations, and the whole world turned upside down. My feelings when the ceasefire happened: we were truly pleased, we thought it was over and thought we were going to go back to normal life, like everyone else. Or do we not have the right to live? After that, war returned, worse than before. Now our feelings are different from before. At first, when the ceasefire happened, we were happy and thought we could go back to our lives. But for the war to stop and then return? That’s terrifying and fills us with anxiety. We didn’t expect the war to start again, at all. We couldn’t even believe it when it ended. We were waiting for relief, supplies and aid. We heard the promises on the news, about trucks entering—we didn’t expect the war to return. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

For me? Yes, I expected it. I expected it. Because they are treacherous, they don’t want peace. We had almost finished the first stage, but at the beginning of the second phase, they turned everything around. They don’t want it to succeed. They don’t want it to succeed. It’s not possible for the war to end. It’s not possible. 

MAMDOUH AHMED MORTAJA: 

Rings of fire, flying body parts, surprise attacks, abductions—the stuff of nightmares is happening in this war, and now, the resumption of war has renewed our feelings of intense fear. Everyone’s only demand is an end to this war and this curse, so we can have safety,

and tranquility, so we can rest our heads on our pillows and know that we will wake up the next day without drones, bullets, or artillery strikes. 

Interviewer: 

– This is not normal, it’s really loud. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

– It’s like this 24/7. 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

Of course, Gaza is used to wars, but not like this. It’s not a war; it’s genocide: the child, the young, the girl, the wealthy, the poor—everyone. I’ll tell you a story: Yesterday, a ten-year-old girl was sleeping in her bed when an airstrike hit and killed her. What did this girl do? She was only ten years old. A girl sleeping. Also, in a tent. An air strike hits, her brains spill out. She dies on her mattress. What did she do? What crime did she commit? It’s a scary thing. The person sitting in his tent is scared, the person in his house is scared. We feel complete exhaustion, there is no stability, and we are mentally drained. When we sleep, we don’t expect to wake up. With the jets and the strikes, no one expects to wake up. We are living day to day, when we sleep, we don’t think about waking up. Death has become normal. What can we do? 

MUKARAM SA’AD MUSTAFA HLIWA: 

To me, the war hasn’t stopped. We have been living in destruction since October 7, 2023. I was injured on October 11, 2023, and until now, there’s been complete ongoing destruction in the Gaza Strip. Martyrs, orphans—destruction, destruction, destruction, more than you can imagine. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

Unfortunately, we expected the war to end, but it didn’t. They don’t want to end it—they want to end us: completely. We don’t want wars, it’s enough. We’re exhasted. Displacement, displacement, displacement. I lost three homes, and I have lost family as martyrs. We’ve been humiliated as you can see, living in a refugee camp and the situation is miserable. A worn out tent, frankly the situation is not good. 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

The children here, when they hear explosions, develop psychological problems. They wet themselves. If a glass falls, they panic—they’re psychologically broken. They’re still children. What do they know? Anything that moves, they think it’s an airstrike or tank fire. They’re living in fear. 

MUKARAM SA’AD MUSTAFA HLIWA:

One of my grandsons has a heart condition, we worry his heart will stop from terror. He screams and cries when he hears a rocket or an airstrike, or the quadcopter fire. The children can’t sleep because of what’s happening here in Gaza. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

The kids wet themselves. That’s one thing. The second? The fear and terror—like this child next to you. They are terrified and have no reassurance. The children roam the streets. There are no schools, no education. The Jews demolished the schools, they demolished kindergartens, the hospitals, the dispensaries, and the infrastructure. Buildings, houses: there is nothing left. The children are broken. The children? Childhood is over here. 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

The future? It’s black and bleak. We have no future—our future is with God. What future? We live in tents, and they have followed us even here! The tent is everything—the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, everything. At the same time, the tent is an oven—not a tent. Even here, they won’t let us stay. They won’t leave us alone. The tents, the fear, the airstrikes—everything is crushing us. 

MAMDOUH AHMED MORTAJA: 

More than 500 days have passed, and this unjust world has watched our bodies being burned alive. Today, more than 50,000 human beings killed, burned alive in front of the world, and no one lifts a finger. So it’s normal that we in Gaza feel we face a deaf, blind, unjust world that supports the executioner standing over us, the victims. 

MUKARAM SA’AD MUSTAFA HLIWA: 

After losing my son, after what’s happened to Gaza? No. There is no hope, none at all. Only God stands with us. Hope in any country? There is none. I don’t trust the international community. They haven’t helped us. On the contrary. They sit and discuss as they destroy us. They haven’t found a solution for Gaza. They are destroying us here and in the West Bank. No one has stopped the war. Why? Only God knows. The blame is on them. There is a conspiracy against the people of Gaza. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

Doesn’t the international community see the victims every day? Thirty, forty victims a day, while they watch. No. Only God is our hope. No one else. God will deliver us from this war. He who is capable of anything. As for the international community, the Arab world, the Muslim world? There are 56 Arab and Muslim nations, yet they do nothing. Two billion Muslims. Two billion Muslims are watching us. They could act, but they do nothing. Where is the Arab world? Where is the Islamic world? Where is the Western world? We are being killed daily. They could act, but they are complicit—their hearts side with Israel. In the end, we’re battling the U.S. We are not equals. And the entire world supports Israel. We’re

exhausted. We are seeing horrors, tragedies, and no one stands with us. The International Court of Justice ruled for us, but where’s the action? We’re alone. 

Interviewer 

– Do you think you will survive this war? 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

– No. Zero chance. I told you: I sleep feeling like I won’t wake up. It’s normal. Thanks be to God. If He wills us to be martyrs, it’s better than this torture. Because, I’m telling you, we are not living—we are dead. These tents are graves above the earth. What’s the difference if we’re buried under it? Nothing. We’re being tortured, watching the explosions, the despair—it’s destroying us mentally and physically. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

Honestly, it’s difficult. We’ve faced death repeatedly. May God save us. I don’t expect to survive. I’m not optimistic. Destruction, terror, fear, humiliation. Only faith in God. As for faith in the war ending? Sadly, we’re not hopeful. 

SUHAILA HAMED SA’AD: 

Who can we have faith in? In whom? There’s no one. We’ve lost everything. Everything. Only our breath remains. And we wait, minute by minute, for it to leave us. 

MOHAMED DARWISH MUSTAFA SA’AD: 

Frankly, we are beyond exhausted. We lost our children, homes, livelihoods, work—Gaza has no life left. Life is over. I mean it. I’m 73. I’ve seen many wars, but never like this. This is genocide. 

MUKARAM SA’AD MUSTAFA HLIWA: 

I hope to walk again after my injury. I have a broken hip, I need a replacement. They approved my transfer, but I’m afraid if I leave, I’ll be exiled. They’re saying that those who leave can’t return. But why? I’m leaving for treatment—why exile me? I am from this land. I am Palestinian. I want my country. I want treatment, but I must return. I’m not leaving to emigrate. I don’t want to abandon my country. That’s what I fear.

On Jan. 19, 2025, a ceasefire deal between Hamas and Israel went into effect—and, for an all-too-brief moment, the slaughter in Gaza halted. TRNN was on the ground in Gaza speaking with displaced Palestinians about their reactions to the ceasefire, the incalculable losses and horrors they had experienced during the previous 15 months, and their hopes for the future once they returned to the ruins of their homes. “I haven’t seen my family for 430 days,” journalist Mustafa Zarzour says. “I’ve been literally waiting for the moment to see my family—since the beginning of the war.”

Since the filming of this report, Israel broke the ceasefire agreement and re-launched its assault on Gaza, with Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu stating that Israel had “resumed combat in full force.” Netanyahu further stated Israel’s intent this week to conquer and control the Gaza Strip, adding that Gaza’s remaining Palestinian population “will be moved.” According to the UN, 90% of Gaza’s remaining population have been forced from their homes, and no aid has been allowed into the Gaza Strip since March 2, 2025—the longest period of aid blockage since the Hamas-led attack on Oct. 7, 2023.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Khalil Khater:

Honestly, I felt happy but not so much. You feel like your heart is split. I mean, it’s true people are returning to their homes, but I don’t have a home. And still, it’s bittersweet. I lost my brother and his children. It felt like he died again when they announced the ceasefire.

Mother of the Martyr Mohammed Wadi:

A huge joy that can’t be described—I was overjoyed. The first thing I thought was: I will find my son and bury him. I want to go to Gaza City, find my house and bury my son and look for reminders of him—pictures, or some mementos of him. Anything really, that has his scent. God is greater. God is greater. God is greater. There is no God but Allah.

Mustafa Zarzour – journalist:

Frankly, there are mixed feelings. Between joy and the fact that we have forgotten the meaning of joy. Because we’ve spent 470 days witnessing bloodshed, air strikes, explosions, displacement. But today, something has returned to us—something like joy. Despite all the blood and all the loss—we have all lost—I lost my brother. This joy is because despite all that happened we are still steadfast.

Mohammed Rayan – Head of Admissions, Shuhada Al Aqsa Hospital:

Frankly, our pain is vast and our wounds are big, there’s not really a lot of room for joy, honestly. What we will do is visit the graves of our martyrs and pay our respects to them. Our feelings swing between happiness and despair, pain and loss, hope, and the immense suffering that our people will continue to endure in the coming days. The loss—because there is no home in the Gaza Strip that has not suffered loss.

Khalil Khater:

I love your uncle and your cousins, sweetheart. OK, I’ll stop crying—for you. We’ll go to Gaza, God willing, and see your grandpa. You can play with your cousins, because you miss them a lot, right?

Chantings:

God is greater. God is greater.

Mother of the Martyr Mohammed Wadi:

I lost my brother, my son, and my brother’s children. I lost two brothers who were taken prisoner. My family had already lost 18 martyrs. My mother, the embrace of my loving mother. My siblings in the North, I’ve missed them so much.

Khalil Khater:

What did the war take? First it took my health. I’m really exhausted. It took the most important people from me. It took them. That’s what it took from me. I lost my work—I was a kindergarten teacher. I lost my home, where I used to feel safe, where I raised my children. Life in a tent is really, really hard. And I lost my brother, of course I can’t get him back, only memories remain. God rest his soul. God rest his soul. Praise be to God in every circumstance.

Rayef Mustafa Al Adadla:

I shall search for my second martyred son, who hasn’t been buried. Then we will return to our homes and fill them. We will rebuild them to say: we rebuild our nation, no matter what the occupation destroys.

Khalil Khater:

I don’t want to return to our old neighborhood because that’s it—we were kicked out of our home. There’s no place for us there. Our neighborhood was near the border, there are a lot of houses that were destroyed, and the building we were in was bombed many times. The tower block next to us was also bombed repeatedly.

Rayef Mustafa Al Adadla:

My house is destroyed, but I will return to it. Despite all the circumstances, I will set up a tent on its ruins or beside it. I will stay on my land, beside my house. We won’t go far. We won’t abandon Gaza, and we won’t emigrate, because we are steadfast—like the mountains. We will stay beside it in the same area, God willing.

Mustafa Zarzour – journalist:

Our house was struck six times. It’s just rubble now, but we will organize this rubble and build again, God willing. What will I find? I’ll find rubble. Blood mixed with rubble. I’ll find ashes. I’ll find… body parts. I won’t find any people, but I’ll return, rebuild it, and live there. We will thank God and continue with our lives. We will move forward, get married, have children—all of us will do this, God willing.

Mother of the Martyr Mohammed Wadi:

My house was destroyed early in the war, on day four. I think I’ll find it bulldozed. I hope I will find some photos of my son. Some of his belongings, to remind us of him. All will be well, God willing. We’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Khalil Khater:

We’ve been waiting for a ceasefire for a long time. I didn’t sleep all night. I waited until 08:30 to hear them announce a ceasefire.

Mother of the Martyr Mohammed Wadi:

One and a half years. From the beginning of the war, I kept saying: “Tomorrow it will be over, tomorrow it will be over.” Hopefully—thank God—today, it’s over. God willing.

Mustafa Zarzour – journalist:

I haven’t seen my family for 430 days. I’ve been literally waiting for the moment to see my family—since the beginning of the war. From day one, I’ve been praying for it to end. We go, we come back again. We’ve been waiting to return for 470 days. Today, the feelings… I literally don’t know how to describe them. Beyond description. Peace means the oppressor and occupier leave all of Palestine—not just Gaza, and not just a ceasefire. Because this is a war of extermination. A war of extermination—where they committed every kind of war crime. It’s not two states. There is only one Palestine. They are the brutal occupier. So our peace is when the occupation leaves.

Mother of the Martyr Mohammed Wadi:

Peace and safety mean no massacres, no bodies, no mass extermination. No martyrs, no jets, no drones, no tanks.

Mustafa Zarzour – journalist:

God rest his soul—my older brother, who was my father’s successor, died. I want to see his kids. His kids are now my responsibility. So the first thing I want to do is see my brother’s children.

Khalil Khater:

When I truly believe that the war is over, I will go and throw myself into my mother’s arms. I don’t know… I’m sure that Gaza City will have changed. All its landmarks will have changed.

As a fragile ceasefire falters in Gaza, millions of displaced Palestinians are still without adequate shelter. Exposure and hypothermia now present grave threats to people’s survival. The Real News reports from the Gaza Strip.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

RANIA HAMD AL-HISI 

The cold. What can I say? The situation is dire. 

It’s very cold. Look, we’re living on the street. We’re living on a street. This entire campsite is suffering from the cold. Me? I am not a child, and I’m suffering from the cold. I’m not a child. God help the children. 

In the morning I try to wash, clean, or do something, and I can’t because of the severity of the cold. We’re literally living on a street. What is protecting us? A sheet. 

The children are exhausted, and we’re also exhausted. There is no immunity. We have no immune defenses at all. No nutrition, no heating, nothing. We’re exhausted. 

The whole camp is suffering; they have no electricity. No blankets, no sheets. Nothing to keep the children warm. This little girl is always wheezing from the intense cold. We’ve taken her to the doctor a hundred times since we moved to the tents. They don’t know what’s wrong. Her stomach hurts. Every time she eats, her stomach hurts her. From what? The cold. 

We’re not handling the cold, so how can the children? I witnessed something with our neighbor that I still can’t process. The sight of him holding his daughter and she’s dead. The whole camp now fears for the children. 

She’s a child. Our neighbors have a small child who’s seven months old. My niece is a child, my granddaughter is a child. We’re scared for them. My granddaughter developed a respiratory illness. This one is wheezing. Our neighbor, Um Wissam, had an attack. I have developed chest pains. I swear to you, I’ve been suffering for two months with chest and back pains. 

And our neighbor’s daughter, Sila… She died from the cold. We heard her mother. I carried her when she was dead. The girl, she was like ice. Ice. When I found her father carrying her, and her mother was on the floor… I carried the girl, I was the first to get to them, I found blood coming from her mouth. It was as if she had come out of a freezer. Frozen solid. I told them, “This girl has died from the cold.” 

MAHMOOD AL-FASIHI 

The night that Sila died was extremely cold. We’re living on the coast. At night it’s unnaturally cold. We adults couldn’t tolerate the cold that night when Sila died. Sila was perfectly normal. She didn’t suffer from any health problems. She breastfed three times that night. The final feeding was at 3:00 a.m. When we tried to wake her at 7:00 a.m. to feed her, we found her blue from the severity of the cold, and her heart had stopped. 

AFFAF HUSAIN ABU-AWILI 

Most of the cases we’re getting right now are called ‘cold injury.’ They are the result of severe cold and the change of season. These cases are usually less than a month old, a week, or two days old. The child arrives already frozen. We call it ‘cold injury’—it means a

deceased child. Of course, all of this is a result of the weather and the cold. Some can’t tolerate the cold. This environment causes respiratory problems. 

The scene is very difficult, the father carrying the body, people screaming. A terrible situation, it’s indescribable. A small child, loved by his family, and the mum awakes and finds him like that, dead. I mean, a terrible situation that defies description. 

Honestly, the situation is getting worse. Especially when it comes to respiratory inflammation in children and these sudden deaths, it’s increased a lot. Of course, it’s a result of the way people are living. Living in tents, lack of medicine, lack of warm clothing. 

MAHMOOD AL-FASIHI 

I have to collect plastic from the street to make a fire for my children. I don’t have gas, I don’t have anything. No basics of life, no heating. At night when it’s cold, my children have to huddle together from the cold. As much as I wrap my children, they’re still cold because of the severity of the cold. And nothing is available, the necessities of life are zero here. 

The severe cold and lack of nutrition have created a lot of problems for the children. They’ve developed skin problems, they’ve developed a lot of things. My children wake up in the middle of the night scared of bombs. Of the terror we are living in. We’re living in terror. We adults have developed mental health issues from the extreme pressure we’re experiencing. We have developed… what can I say? We’re exhausted. Seriously. We’re exhausted from the war. 

RANIA HAMD AL-HISI 

When it rains, the whole place swims. When it rained last time, everyone had to leave. Look, you can see. There are no covers, or anything, and no one has given us anything. I have a sister, Um Ahmed, who recently gave birth. Where does the baby sleep? She’s made a bed for him from cardboard. On cardboard! Fearing that he falls into the water. The boy is two months old. 

I swear to God, the thing that scares me the most. When it’s nighttime, I start praying: “Oh God, Oh God.” “Oh God please let us get through this night. God, don’t let it rain, please God.” God, please don’t let the people drown from the rain. 

All night and the morning too, we can’t sleep because of the bombs. And the rain. The night that it rained, I swear to God I suffered. When the rain comes, it’s not about me—I can tolerate it. It’s the children. I can tolerate it. But the children? 

Where’s the world? Where are the Arab people to see us? Would they like their kids to go through this? Now our children wake up from sleep, they’re thinking about water, they collect pieces of paper to help their moms make a fire, they’re thinking about the soup kitchen. That’s it. That’s our children. 

I swear to God, what is happening to us—I hope happens to everyone who isn’t seeing or hearing us. I swear to God, I’m talking to you and my fingers are frayed from the cold. So

what about the children? What about the kids, what should they do? I swear to God all they think about is the soup kitchen: “The soup kitchen is here! The soup kitchen is gone!” 

This girl, I’m telling you, she’s wheezing the whole night. I wake up and even to make her a herbal tea, we struggle. We don’t have gas or anything. I swear to God, you suffer so much just to make a fire.

Despite their coastal location, Palestinians in the Gaza Strip can only count on the sea for part of their diet. Israeli warships blockade Gaza as part of its overall siege of the strip, and in doing so prevent Palestinian fishermen from venturing into deeper waters. Risking injury and death, which are routine, Gaza’s fishermen persevere nonetheless—fighting to not only preserve their livelihoods, but their heritage and identity as well. The Real News reports from the Deir Al-Balah in the Gaza Strip.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Ismail Mohamed – Deir Al Balah, 35 years old: 

The sea means everything. You never grow tired of it. 

For us, it flows in our blood, the sea. We’re like fish; if we leave the sea, then we die. We have t close to the sea. When we go east, we always return to the sea. Our lives are completely tied to the sea. 

The sea is memories and stories. 

Subhi Mayek Abu Riyaleh – Muasker Al Shati’, 24 years old: 

I love the sea. I love the sea because I eat fish and do something good for people 

● Did you inherit it? 

● Yes, yes. From my dad. My grandfather, too. My grandfather was a fisherman, my father was a fisherman, and I became a fisher 

Ismail Mohamed – Deir Al Balah, 35 years old: 

We inherited this work from our fathers and forefathers. We’re close to the sea, we’re close to the coast. So our whole lives are at sea. Since long ago, since our forefathers, we’ve been fishermen 

We come to the sea every day; it’s our place of work. We’re here from sunrise to sunset. Subhi Mayek Abu Riyaleh – Muasker Al Shati’, 24 years old: 

At 5 o’clock in the morning, with the call to prayer, I come, sit here, and I make a cup of coffee. I sit until the day arrives. I look to see if the cruiser is here or not. If it’s here, I don’t go in; if it’s not, I go. 

Ismail Mohamed – Deir Al Balah, 35 years old: 

Our biggest obstacle is Israel. The Israeli cruisers—as you can see—are in the sea. 24 hours, you’re under fire and shelling: there’s no merc 

Every day, we have the dead. We have the injured. Every day, every day. We have the dead, we have the injured. You go in a little, and the cruiser will fire at you with no prior warning 

Subhi Mayek Abu Riyaleh – Muasker Al Shati’, 24 years old: 

From the first month of war, they targeted all our boats across the whole of the Gaza Strip. In Deir  Balah, Rafah, Gaza City, and Khan Yunis, they completely burned all of the boats. Completely destroyed everything straight away. 

We fish along the coast, and then we run away. The cruiser comes and shoots at us, and we run away from it. A cruiser, yes, and the destroyer. The destroyer comes every day. 

Ismail Mohamed – Deir Al Balah, 35 years old:

What is it doing? These people are fishermen. They’re earning a living, they’re just getting their dai bread. The sea is forbidden. Fishing isn’t restricted; it’s completely blocked. 

It’s forbidden for anyone to go in, forbidden to fish. You can see, the boats are near the coast, around 500 meters away. Go further than this and you will die. You expose yourself to danger; you expose yourself to death. 

Subhi Mayek Abu Riyaleh – Muasker Al Shati’, 24 years old: 

But why is it forbidden? We’re just civilians. We go in, we fish, and we leave. We have nothing to  with anything, we fish and we leave 

A big, big, big, big danger! Only yesterday, my cousin was killed. In Gaza City, in Gaza City. He was killed at sea. 

Because he wanted to feed his kids, and there’s no food in Gaza City. There’s no food, so he was fishing and he was killed—him and the person with him. By the destroyer 

I was exposed to danger twice, in Rafah, my big brother and I. I was lying on the back of the boat, the shooting was at the sides: here and here, and in front of the boat. The Israelis were seeing where they were shooting and what they were doing. They wanted to kill us, that’s it. 

Ismail Mohamed – Deir Al Balah, 35 years old: 

The fisherman will tell you: “Dying at sea while getting food to feed my children and my family is better than sitting at home waiting for my fate, waiting for a missile or something.” 

As you know, our lives are in danger on top of danger. Danger of death. Maybe a missile will get you, maybe a drone would hit you. Rest in peace! 

Diesel is cut, electricity is cut, water is cut, and fishing nets are cut. The fiberglass that we nee repair the boats is not allowed in. 

We used to go far and catch large fish. Today, because we can’t go far into the sea and we don’t have the fishing nets, and we don’t have proper boats either, all our boats are broken, made of woo some are 20 years old. 

So we fish along the beach, we fish these small fish and crabs, that’ 

Subhi Mayek Abu Riyaleh – Muasker Al Shati’, 24 years old: 

Our obstacle in this war is that there is fish in the sea, but it’s deeper, where the cruiser is, where death is. 

We don’t go to death, we stay here along the beach. These days, small fish. We sell 1kg for 10 sheke ($2.75): we let people eat. We make 20 ($5.50) or 30 ($8.20) shekels to be able to survive today. Tomorrow, God will provide. 

Ismail Mohamed – Deir Al Balah, 35 years old:

There’s no space. All of Gaza is full of refugees. There’s no free land, so people come to the sea—you can see. The sea washes their tents away every day. They moved into the fishing shack 

These shacks used to be where we left our boats and things, so we emptied them. Of course, half of them are burnt, half of them are bombed out. The refugees are living there. 

There’s not a single meter in Gaza—or in the south—that you can step on. It’s all refugees and tents. People run away from the east, from death, they come to the sea. The fisherman moves them along then they get killed by an airstrike. 

We run away from death only to find death. We run away from the airstrikes, only to get swallowed by the sea. Inland, there is nothing, only death and airstrikes. 

A person is unsafe in his own home, so we come and pour our problems into the sea, we complain to the sea. 

I’m telling you, the people of Gaza, in general, are like fish—if they leave the sea, they die. We ha lived at sea, we were raised by the sea, we learned at sea, and we will stay at sea. 

The sea runs in our blood. It runs in our veins, the sea. If we lived to the east, we would die. 

All of Gaza’s people are like this. Geographically, the Gaza Strip is along the coast. We don’t have rivers, or fancy hotels, or attractions like other people. We have only the sea. 

● It’s the only respite? 

● It’s the only respite, the first and the las 

The war has destroyed us. We no longer know if we will see each other tomorrow or not. 

Today, every step is a blessing, as they say. And in this sea, we witness death in it with our own eyes every day. 

Will we return to our homes or not? Will we see our young ones or not? 

The best thing about fishing? It’s that you don’t see anyone. You pour all your worries into the se and you get a break from people. 

That’s the best thing about fishing 

Subhi Mayek Abu Riyaleh – Muasker Al Shati’, 24 years old: 

The best thing? We get a lot of patience being at the sea. 

That’s it.

Israel’s deliberate campaign of starvation in Gaza is exacting a punishing toll on its people. Just 30 aid trucks entered the Gaza Strip a day in November, according to Al Jazeera—a far cry what is needed to feed the area’s 2 million people. In North Gaza Governate, where a vicious campaign of ethnic cleansing is underway, just 12 of 34 permitted aid trucks have arrived since Oct. 6, according to Oxfam. The Real News reports from Deir al Balah in Gaza’s south, where overburdened and under-provisioned bakeries struggle to feed thousands.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

There’s people who camp overnight at the bakery. I swear—the last time I went, I found they’d laid out beds at the door. There are people who get there at 5am. I swear someone told me they arrived at 3am and left at night. For 19 packs of bread. Some get it and some don’t. 

Interviewer: 

How many meals are you eating a day? 

Um Yusuf Dalloul, Gaza City: 

There aren’t any meals! It doesn’t make up a meal, there aren’t any meals at all. There’s nothing. Right now, currently, there are no meals. There’s no food. People started hitting each other. The last time I was here, I got trapped in the middle of a fight. 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

Yes, they’re slaughtering each other. I swear to God, with sticks. They’re beating people with sticks. They hit people, last time they knocked over an old man and he dropped to the floor. 

Interviewer: 

All this for bread? 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

For bread. And the kid refused to pick him up. We told him: “Be respectful he’s old, help him up,” he said: “No, you help him.” Hitting people with sticks as if they were cattle. Not humans. 

Interviewer: 

Are there many conflicts? 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

Every day, every day, there are problems at the bakery. Every day. Not a day goes by without problems. A person before the war used to come and go, used to be strong. I swear I used to carry a sack of cement to the fourth floor, and go up and down two or three times. Now, nothing. Even water—from carrying the water so much—we don’t have any strength left. 

Um Yusuf Dalloul, Gaza City: 

I mean can they find us a solution? So we can just leave. We want to leave. Enough. We are exhausted. Illnesses. I have chronic illnesses and can’t find medications. Can’t find medications and can’t even find bread to eat with my medications. Since morning I’ve been wandering around trying to find bread. We’re suffering. 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

Everyone’s being diagnosed, everyone’s fatigued. If you go to the Jaa hospital, you can’t walk for people suffering from fatigue. 

Interviewer: 

From what?

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

From lack of food. 

Um Yusuf Dalloul, Gaza City: 

Yes, many have died of hunger. As someone with a chronic illness, if this continues, I could die. Maybe a week and I’ll die. It’s normal. Because I suffer from a lot of chronic illnesses. I’m suffering even from talking, because I have high blood pressure. 

Sa’ada Barakat Rashid Khel: 

I went to the clinic to get checked, I told them I get dizzy and my eyes glaze. They said you need blood tests, I told them my blood is definitely bad because I’m not eating. I’ve lost more than half my weight. My son gets bad headaches, and he went to the clinic and they gave him vitamins. And my youngest daughter, they’re always telling me: “Her face is yellow, her face is yellow.” They lack nutrition, vitamins, food, and drink. Even at the clinic, they have no medications. 

Interviewer: 

Are you hungry now? 

Ahmed Hassan Usman Ali Al Arshi: 

Yes, honestly, a lot. I mean, before the war I was—I’ve lost a lot of weight. Before the war, my weight was almost 41 kilograms. Now, 38 kilograms—around that. Before the war I used to eat fruits and chicken and vegetables and we had everything. We used to eat, we weren’t hungry. Now there’s nothing. We’ve started to crave chicken. We crave everything, we haven’t found stuff to eat. The soup kitchens, we force ourselves to eat that. There’s nothing to eat. And lentils. Honestly, we used to hate lentils. Now though, we’ve started to love them. 

Interviewer: 

From lack of food? 

Ahmed Hassan Usman Ali Al Arshi: 

Yeah. 

Sa’ada Barakat Rashid Khel: 

Most of the time my kids sleep hungry. Most of the time they sleep hungry. If—if—they manage to get food from the soup kitchen, they eat it. If not, then there is nothing. That’s it, there’s no bread, no flour. My daughter is always saying: “Mum, I want to eat.” What can I do about it? What can I say? If we have lentil soup, I say: “Go drink the soup,” she says: “It doesn’t fill me up!” I say: “Well, what can we do?” Just go to sleep. 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

I fear for my kids, not for myself. That’s what made me leave Gaza City, I’m not scared for myself; I’m scared for those with me. I mean, when it comes to food and drink in general, we can’t afford it. Even when we go to the bakery, we can’t afford a packet of bread. People buy it from the bakery for 3 shekels (0.85 USD), and sell it for 20 ($5), 25 ($7), or 30 shekels ($8). We can’t afford it.

Um Yusuf Dalloul, Gaza City: 

That’s it. Greed and selfishness has consumed everyone. There are traders who buy and sell: they buy it for 3 shekels ($0.85) and sell it for 15 ($3.5). A cucumber for 10 shekels ($2.75)?! Prices are sky high. We’re living in Hell. Life is unbearable. 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

A bag of flour has reached 400 ($112) or 500 ($140) shekels. And we can’t get it. I swear there was a day when I sold a bag of flour for 5 shekels ($1.40). In the summer, it wouldn’t keep, it would go bad. Now it’s 500 shekels ($140), we can’t afford it. 500 ($140), 600 ($168), and 700 ($196). Today it reached 800 shekels ($224). Today I asked the price of a bag of flour they told me 800 shekels ($224). Where are we going to get that from? We can’t even get a packet of bread. 

Um Yusuf Dalloul, Gaza City: 

Enough! If they don’t want us then just kill us. Because we are fed up. Seriously. We’re fed up. We’re here dying, I swear we’re dying. Our health has gone, our wealth has gone. 

When will this be solved? The whole world has wars and then they solve them, apart from us? We’re the forgotten. I swear we’re forgotten. Until when? 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh:
To the world? I say: wake up from your sleep. Come out of your coma. Look at the Palestinian people. Feel compassion for them. That’s what I say. People have run out of patience. People have run out of space. People have forgotten what meat is. When you ask about meat, they’ll say: “What’s that?” 

Interviewer: 

How long has it been since you ate meat? 

Mahmud Zuhair Hussain Abu Zaideh: 

From the day they closed the crossing. People are suffocated. 

Nearly all of Gaza’s population of 2 million people have been displaced by the last 14 months of Israeli genocide. At the same time, Israeli bombing has destroyed over two thirds of the Strip’s buildings, leaving the majority of people without adequate shelter. While many live in tents, some are eking out an existence in the remaining hospitals, many of which are now doubling as refugee camps. The Real News reports from the European Hospital in Al-Fukhari near Khan Younis, where families have taken up residence after being displaced on multiple occasions.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Narrator: 

The European Hospital is one of the last functioning medical facilities in Gaza. But as well as working as a hospital, it’s also become a place where many are taking refuge, in a gaza where in the face of bombing, evacuation orders and military sieges, places for people to be are steadily disappearing. 

Sabreen Al Masri: 

When you see injured people, it aects your mental state. When they bomb, you also get scared; you think, “The Israelis are here.” You’re aected. You’re scared. I’m mentally exhausted. I left my beautiful house and came to live in the European Hospital, in a tent. The tent is terrible—when it rained, we drowned. Then the summer came with its heat. We suered. I mean, we’re living through something very dicult. Please, God, let there be a ceasefire so we can go home. We’ll go, even if it’s to a tent—we just want to go home. We’re from Gaza City, not from here. 

Narrator: 

Majdi is a taxi driver who has been continuously displaced multiple times by Israel over the last year

Majdi Majid Razeq Lahan: 

I was going to the Jabalia market at the Aleppo crossing when the airstrikes hit. I didn’t understand how. I was walking, and then suddenly, I was on the floor. I looked and saw blood gushing. I found a rope on the ground, cut like this. So I tied my leg here and here. I was bleeding, and no one could rescue me. No ambulance could reach me. I was surrounded by corpses. Many. Around 50. It was a market; do you understand what that means? A market full of people, and bombs fall on it. The only survivors were me and two others, one from the Najjar family. We were the only ones from around 30 or 40 people. There were no doctors; the pharmacy was hit. The central clinic at the Indonesian Hospital was hit. There were multiple incidents. Then they said the tanks had come; some of the doctors ran away. Some stayed. My leg wasn’t supposed to be amputated. I was injured in one leg—it was just flesh. The other leg had a cut artery. They searched for a doctor for two hours. The doctor couldn’t get to the hospital; he was on his way but couldn’t get through because of the tanks and the siege. So they decided, after consulting my brother, who’s a nurse, to amputate my leg. 

There are no antibiotics. I’m surviving on painkillers like Tramadol. I stayed three days in the Indonesian Hospital: Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. On Monday at midnight, we were told to move to the European Hospital. Due to extreme pressure, they couldn’t bring us in an ambulance. A bus with 50 passengers came instead. One guy was wounded and bleeding. Every 2–3 hours, he would get a blood transfusion. People were sitting on seats or thrown on the floor, lying there. 

My child was killed. He was 24. My hopes were like any father’s hopes—to be proud of his son, to see him get married, to watch him grow. Every time I go to eat, I think of my son. In the month of Ramadan, my son was working in a shop to contribute to the household. But during the sweep of Jabalia Al Balad, while he was in the school, they hit him in a strike. What was the crime of a

24-year-old boy? I raised my son for 24 years; I fed him and provided for him. Suddenly, he’s taken from me. They took our lives, took everything. Where are the people who feel for us? Bring us someone who feels for us—not just me. I’m one of a million. I’m one of 1.5 million refugees. I’ve become hopeless and helpless. What was my crime? My crime was trying to find food for my children. I left on two feet, walking and whole. My son was working in a shop, and a strike hits him while he’s working? What was his crime? 

Who will I leave all these people to? I was the only breadwinner in the entire house, more or less. There are around 15 people I am responsible for. Now, as you can see, I am helpless. 

Narrator: 

Isad is Majid’s mother, who alongside Majid has been displaced multiple times.

Isad Mohamed Slimane Rayhana – Majdi Majid’s mother: 

No medicine, no therapies, no doctors. Today, whoever gets sick, dies. What’s the crime of children like this? What’s the crime of this child? What’s their crime? They can’t find a place to play. If the Israelis had just killed us, it would have been better than this. I swear. Maybe we would have rested. They asked us to move to the south. We didn’t leave willingly. We left with our children, whose legs and arms were chopped o. I miss the land, the trees, and the olives. I have land, I have trees, and I have a house. Every day, I die for my home. Every day, I die for my house. Literally, I burn inside because of my home. I grieve for my home every day. We left with our youth, our children. First, my son-in-law was killed. Then my son was killed, my brother-in-law was killed, and my grandson was killed. My son lost his leg. We used to be a happy family. Now we are an unhappy family. We are sad. This one kills us; this one humiliates us. The prices and the inflation we are experiencing—we can’t survive with them. 

Look. This is our bread, our food. This is how we’re living—with the sewage, the bedding, and the dogs. What has happened to us? We can barely get a drop of water. The bathroom is far away. It’s used by around 700 people. We have to wait our turn. We fight over it. Every day, there are problems. Soon, people are going to start killing each other—over the bathroom, over water, over food and drink. We’re not living a dignified life.

Dogs. Hunger. Humiliation. Beatings. Rape. The testimony of survivors from Sde Teiman, Israel’s torture camp for Palestinians based in the Negev Desert, paint a consistent portrait of inhumanity and savagery with few parallels in modern history. The Real News reports from the Gaza Strip, where Sde Teiman survivor Rafik Hamdi Darwish Yasin shares his experience at the hands of his Israeli captors.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Narrator: 

In November 2023 Rafik Hamdi Darwish Yassin was detained by the Israeli Army in Gaza. Later he was transferred to the Israeli military-base-turned-detention-camp Sde Teiman and it was here where he says he was further subjected to multiple forms of physical and psychological torture for a further 25 days. 

Rafik Hamdi Darwish Yasin: 

I would have preferred they shoot me in Gaza than leave Gaza. We wanted to leave, two of our neighbors left the building; we were surprised by snipers and these two neighbors were killed. So we were besieged for five days until they came in their tanks. They smashed the front of the building, destroyed the stairs, then they entered and took us out. There were people that they didn’t detain; they just killed them in their homes. They entered and told us – I was wearing a jacket – they told me to take the jacket off and to lower my trousers a little. We got dressed, then they blindfolded us and tied our wrists with electric wire from the back. 

Narrator: 

Leaked CCTV footage from Sde Teiman appears to show Israeli soldiers sexually assaulting an inmate with the help of dogs, and the camp is awash with accusations of both psychological and physical torture. 

Rafik Hamdi Darwish Yasin: 

Most of the hits were to the head, I lost four teeth. Four teeth from my mouth. They hit the sides, the joints, anywhere it would not be easy to recover from, they would hit. Apart from that, the dogs. The dogs were muzzled, but if the dog stood on you it was like being stabbed five times. The cold, we were sleeping on one blanket and a mat that was less than one centimeter thick. On concrete, and the whole prison where we were was raised around one to one and a half meters in height. It was winter. We were there from November 23 to December 23. 

A month? One month, correct. A month that for the prisoner feels like 30 years. 30 days blindfolded, then we were tied, cuffed from behind for five days. Then they cuffed us from the front – even worse. Two plastic ties around each wrist with a metal chain in between. So that your hand – here, look: this is from December, it went all the way to the bone. They killed people in front of us. They used to take people to the top of buildings, tie them with rope to make it look like they were special forces in front of your eyes. What kind of torture is this? Who can tolerate this torture? They would hit you in the head with the rifle, there was a man who was killed as he got off the bus. They whacked him in the head, and he died right there while getting off the bus. 

They use their boots. They use dogs. Some would use music. They would lock you in a room and play loud music for three, five hours. 10 hours, 12 hours. I mean… the worst possible. They would force you to sit on your knees. Four hours. Standing, four hours. You would stay standing. Even the medic who would come to treat you, one of their medics – I had these ties here cutting to the bone – on both sides. A medic would come and bandage

your hand today. The day after the next medic would come and tie your wrists so tight that your hand would start bleeding again and would tie it with such pressure so that your wrists become deformed. Even their medics are Nazis. 

You can tolerate the physical torture… But the psychological torture and the humiliation. If you understand Hebrew, it becomes much more difficult. Many didn’t understand the humiliating things they were saying. A horde of criminals, and there are levels with them: from those who hate the Palestinian people, to those who want to kill every single Palestinian, to those who would shoot at Palestinians directly. Three levels, and all three are criminals. Every one would show their hatred at a specific level. 

The Israeli army, the Israeli intelligence, says that whoever didn’t celebrate on October 7 ate sweets, and whoever didn’t eat sweets gave shelter to Hamas. What has October 7 got to do with me? What did I do on the 6th or 7th of October!? What did I do? I did not take part in this whole story. 

Narrator: 

Though it’s been almost a year since Rafik was released, the long term effects of that single month of detention remain. 

Rafik Hamdi Darwish Yasin: 

When I was in prison, I lost 43 kilos. Forty-three kilos in 30 days. 43 kilos, look. You can see how my body is wrinkled. I didn’t go to the toilet for around 6 days from lack of food. I started to bleed in my gut, and I was hospitalized. Now I can’t lift my arm. More than this I can’t lift my arm. To this moment I am on anxiety meds. These are the medications I take for the effects of the detention. These are strong psychological drugs. This one is half a pill at night, you couldn’t take this in the day. 

Every day I walk around 15 kilometers, so I can sleep on top of the anxiety meds. I mean, you can say that I have lost my life. We are alive but dead at the same time. 

They released us in Karma Abu Salem; of course, they didn’t tell us. They want to steal any joy from you until the last moment; they didn’t tell us we were being released. In Karma Abu Salem we were barefoot, none of us were wearing shoes. We walked for three and a half or four kilometers, walking on asphalt, covered in debris. The feeling of freedom… There wasn’t a lot of happiness. Why? Because we were far from family, and there’s a war that continues, and the blood is still flowing. There’s no reason to celebrate until now. There’s no reason for joy. 

You know the time that I used to be able to relax? When I would think of my family. That’s it. I would be able to leave the world I was in. I would remember my son who… I have one son who suffers from autism. I worry about him a lot. Even the buildings, the trees, the buildings, what was their crime? We evacuated the area; why are you bulldozing the buildings? Why are you bulldozing the trees? I mean they want to destroy everything that the Palestinians have built in 50 years. 

That’s the sound of strikes. 

– That’s the sound of strikes, yes. It’s far away, east of Deir. 

– God help us. 

– God help us.

As of Oct. 7, 2023, Israel has attacked 162 healthcare facilities in Gaza and rendered 114 hospitals and clinics inoperable. In the midst of starvation by siege, daily bombardment, and threats to their lives, Gaza’s remaining healthcare workers continue to care for the sick and wounded. The Real News reports from Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Hospital and Al-Ahli Arab Hospital in the Gaza Strip.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Rula Khaled Khalil Awadh – Nurse, Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital: 

My brother was killed while I was at work. They called me and said, “Admit your brother, he has been killed.” 

Narrator: 

Rula Khaled Khalil Awadh is a nurse at the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Southern Gaza. She was on shift when her brother’s body was brought into the hospital after he was killed in an Israeli strike. 

Rula Khaled Khalil Awadh – Nurse, Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital: 

This is Mohamed, my brother, the martyr, who died when I was on shift. He was martyred and left this world. The occupation took him, against our wishes. He has two sons and a girl: Firas, Khaled, and Ruweida. Ruweida is named after our mother, God rest her soul. He grew up an orphan from an early age. Now he’s left behind three children—orphans. 

I won’t lie to you, from day one, we were witnessing how many doctors, nurses, and medical staff had lost their family members while they were at work. So we put the scenario in our minds: How would I face this situation? Then we’d say, “No, God forbid!” But then it happened. He has no connection to anything. He went to chop wood because there isn’t any gas. While he was cutting wood, he was hit by a drone. This is during his funeral. This is during my meeting with him. The experience of loss. We’re experiencing loss every day. 

Narrator: 

Dr. Ahmed Radi is a doctor volunteering at the Al-Ahli hospital in besieged Northern Gaza. It was here, on the 17th of October 2023, that a missile struck the courtyard of the Al-Ahli hospital killing 471 people and wounding 342 others. 

Since then, Israeli air strikes have pummelled Gaza’s medical infrastructure, making life incredibly difficult for doctors like Ahmed 

Dr. Ahmed Radi – Volunteer Doctor, Al Ahli Hospital: 

The experience of loss, I mean: Mothers losing their sons. Children losing their mothers. People losing children, losing the elderly. These experiences have been difficult, not just as a doctor but as a human being. We haven’t found the time for grief or sadness, for expressing our feelings, because events are continuing, the genocide is continuing, the misery is continuing in Gaza. The war has eliminated all aspects of life for us, especially this war, the likes of which we have never seen. This has been a war of annihilation from every angle. It’s affected us psychologically, it’s affected us physically. 

With regards to displacement, of course, there’s no one, especially in northern Gaza, who hasn’t been displaced multiple times in light of the continuing military operations by the occupation forces. We’ve suffered from displacement; we’ve been forced into uninhabitable areas, unfit for life.

Narrator: 

The North of Gaza has been under complete siege since October 1st 2024, with tens of thousands of people trapped without access to food and water. Israeli forces have been using military vehicles, drones and sand barriers to stop any movement of people, goods and aid. It’s under these conditions the staff at the AL-Ahli hospital are forced to function. 

Dr. Ahmed Radi – Volunteer Doctor, Al Ahli Hospital: 

This is a small hospital; it can’t accommodate these large numbers. The rooms are filled with patients; the corridors are filled with patients. This is the biggest, most difficult challenge for keeping on top of the patients. 

Rula Khaled Khalil Awadh – Nurse, Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital: 

– Hello. How are you? How is Heba? Is she doing OK? When did Heba arrive? – Two days ago. 

– What happened to Heba? 

– Our school was bombed, ‘The Martyrs School’ in Nuseirat. The classroom that was next to us, she was standing at the door when it was bombed. 

– She was in the middle of the strike? 

– Yes, in the middle of it. 

– OK. What happened to her exactly, with her head, what’s the situation? – It’s all open from here to here; they did a CT scan. There’s a piercing to the cranium, internal bleeding, and we are keeping track, with God’s will. 

– Did they change the bandage? She’s taken her medication? 

– She’s taken her medication. 

– OK, is she always crying like this? 

– She’s quiet, then cries, quiet, then cries. 

– This is from the fear, the effects of the hit, she’s scared. 

– Yes, at night she freezes. 

– It’s not like at the beginning, though. She’s scared, but it’s less. Thanks be to God. – OK, but try as much as you can to feed her, so her immune system strengthens, so that also the stitches will close up faster. 

The problem, of course, is that there is no food available. Nothing is available. OK, try, for example, milk: things like this. There are vitamins, the doctor—you will be prescribed it. We received a child; she was one and a half years old, identity unknown. She was completely burnt. Two hours later, while they were treating her, the situation deteriorated from complications brought on by the war, from inhalation of the chemicals released by the missiles. The child suffered from complications, and we transferred her to intensive care. Two hours later, the child died, and she was unidentified. 

Some of the injured, it’s as if you have opened a diagram that shows, separately: the skin, the muscles, the flesh, the bone. Shown in a clear picture, in the wounds of the patients and the injured.

Painkillers, the absolute basic medication required for the injured, is not available in the hospital. Paracetamol is not available—or only in tiny amounts. 

Dr. Ahmed Radi – Volunteer Doctor, Al Ahli Hospital: 

The killer in this war is the silence. In light of the genocide, in light of the mass killings, and the mass burnings, we haven’t found a single person that’s stood and said: “Stop the war on Gaza!” Where is the world? 

[Explosions] I would describe myself as a normal Palestinian citizen who’s suffering from this war and its woes, whose house was destroyed, who was displaced. But we have no choice but to stay in our homes in northern Gaza. The cutting off of the evacuation routes, the destruction of every possible evacuation route to evacuate the Palestinian people. The medical staff have been exhausted, and pressure has been applied on them; some were arrested, some were killed. But the decision has been to remain in the Gaza Strip, to remain specifically in the north of the Gaza Strip. 

We will follow through with what we were born to do, and we pray that God ends this war and ends this genocide and returns peace to this beautiful city. 

Rula Khaled Khalil Awadh – Nurse, Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital: 

– Hi Bashoura. How are you? How’s things? Good? Where’s your needle? You’re playing with the ball? How? You’re squeezing it? Good. Does it hurt? No? OK, great. In a little while, we are going to change it for you. Can I see your head wound? What’s its status? Are you getting headaches, Bashayir? No pain? Nothing. Good. OK, let me just grab this and see to your injection. Is there any pain? 

– [Silently] A little. 

– Good. 

A flood. I describe this war as literally a flood. The name matches. They called it a flood, and it is, in fact, a flood. We used to be in a state of independence, stability, and safety. Now we’re in a state of fear, anxiety, displacement, and loss. This is the war, summed up—a flood. We will grow in resilience and strength and more giving, God willing. We are a mighty people; we will remain a mighty people. God willing.

One of the clearest signs of Israel’s genocidal intent in Gaza has been its unrelenting, targeted attacks on children and families. Israel has slaughtered more than 11,000 Palestinian children over the past year, and there are also over 17,000 children who have lost their parents and caretakers. These orphans have been largely embraced by their communities, but must still find a way to survive the war without their closest loved ones. The Real News reports from Khan Younis, speaking to Alma, age 12, and Mahmoud, age 13, who have both survived Israeli massacres that killed the majority of their relatives.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

NARRATOR: For those children who escape death, surviving has its own challenges. According to UNICEF, At least 17,000 children were estimated to be unaccompanied or separated from their parents in the Gaza Strip in February 2024, four months into the war. Today, that number is likely significantly higher. 

ALMA MOHAMED GHANEM JAROUR: Come and sit. Look how nice the camp looks. There’s the first medical point, and there is the second. There’s the administration point. 

NARRATOR: Alma Jarour was the sole survivor of an Israeli air strike that flattened the entire building where she was taking refuge, killing a reported 140 people in total, and almost every single member of her extended family. 

She is only one of the orphans staying at the “Dar Al Baraka” orphanage, a single tent in a sea of refugee tents, designated exclusively for orphans West of the city of Khan Yunis. 

ALMA: Where do you like to go? 

GIRL 1: I like the amusement park! 

ALMA: And you, Samaa? 

GIRL 2: I like to go to restaurants! 

ALMA: —And I like to go to the sea! 

ALMA: The place I used to love to go to the most before the war was the sea. When the war began, the Yarmuk mosque was targeted and it was next to our house. I felt strangled, my chest was constricted. I was so scared, I would hide in my mum’s arms. We would sleep in my mum and dad’s arms. We would not move from our places. We were in my uncle’s building. The entire building was bombed. It was full of children and women only. 

INTERVIEWER: Where were you?

ALMA: I was with them! I was not expecting that. I got out from under the rubble and thought my family had also gotten out. I didn’t expect that. I got out, and then strangers took me to their home. I ran away and went back to the building. The people took me away a second time but I went back to the building again. I got the biggest shock, I found all the people from the building in pieces. In pieces. I don’t know what to tell you. 

I came out from the rubble, out of 140 people. I mean, there were 140 people in the building. We’re innocent children, we’re not involved in anything. We’re children. 

INTERVIEWER: All your family died? 

ALMA: Yes, all of them. What can we say? 

NARRATOR: Sami Jihad Haddad is Alma’s aunt’s husband, and one of her only surviving relatives.

SAMI JIHAD HADDAD: The house was hit, and the only survivor was Alma. She came out of the rubble after three hours. No one else survived with her, they all died. No one remained for Alma except her aunt, because her aunt was displaced to Al Wasta. 

God sent the war and wiped out their entire line. He wiped the near and the far. From the grandfather to the grandson: they’re all gone. This girl survived. No uncle, no father, no grandfather—all of them: may god have mercy on their souls. In the center of this building. They stayed under the rubble for four months, until the neighbors and loved ones pulled them out when the area was cleared after the bombings. 

ALMA: I was in the building on the same day, at the time of that same air strike. On that same day I went to the south. What did I find? I found tanks and weapons… 

INTERVIEWER: Who did you go with? 

ALMA: With my mother’s relatives, but they are not my relatives. We found the Israelis, and tanks and weapons. I mean, we found a sniper who was shooting at us, and tanks were pointing at us! I mean, an unbearable scene. 

We found blood. I found blood. But my aunt, she found a corpse. Thrown in the street. I saw a lot of blood. I was walking in the street and I saw a lot of blood. The Israelis were moving in the area, they were in front of us, they were in front of us, it was normal. They had a store of weapons there. They raided a house and took it over and made it their place. They went in and took out a lot of weapons. I mean, these were unbearable scenes at this time. The whole way I was screaming, screaming, screaming. I was screaming for four, five days, I didn’t speak to anyone. I didn’t want to eat.

NARRATOR: Like Alma, 12-year-old Mahmoud has also been recently orphaned. 

MAHMOUD TAYSIR ABU SHAHMEH: We were sleeping at 3 o’clock at night. We heard a strike and I ran out of the house outside. I was injured from the strike, and that’s it. After I was in the hospital for 14 [days], then we went to sheikh Nasser, then we left to Mashrou’, then to Rafah. Then after Rafah we came here, to Khan Yunis. 

INTERVIEWER: How did your parents die? 

MAHMOUD: The house was struck, and we lost my mum, my sister, my brother, his wife, his son, my aunt. Then they struck my house at a different time, and we lost my dad, my uncle, my other uncle, my other uncle, my little cousin, my other cousin, my aunt, her son, and my dad’s wife. 

INTERVIEWER: And you were left alone? 

MAHMOUD: Yeah, I’m left alone, I have three married sisters, they’re all with their husbands. 

NARRATOR: Daoud Abu Shahmeh is Mahmoud’s uncle and one of his only surviving relatives. He tells us about Mahdmoud’s anxiety attacks and dark memories that mostly surface at night. 

DAOUD ABU SHAHMEH: His mental state is difficult; honestly, it’s bad. What do you expect? A child loses his mother, his father? The air strikes. Every minute, something bombed. What’s his mental state? It’s destroyed! I’m telling you, not the mental state of children, us adults, our mental state is destroyed. 

We try to ease his pain. He’s not a baby, he’s 12 years old and he’s aware that his parents have died and gone to heaven. Sometimes he dreams at night and shouts out, ‘Mummy! Daddy! Where are you?’ 

Everything I can do for him, I do it. He asks and I tell him, may Allah have mercy on your mum. May Allah have mercy on your dad. They were good people. They live in Heaven, God Willing. And may God allow us to join them. Because I swear this is no life. I swear it’s no life. We’re not living. We’re martyrs-in-waiting. Everyone is waiting for their day. 

NARRATOR: But during the daylight hours, both Mahmoud and Alma show remarkable resilience. 

MAHMOUD: We play football in the evening with the boys here outside. We play for an hour and then we come and sit here. 

DAOUD ABU SHAHMEH: I sit with him and we play together. We play football. We throw the ball to each other. I tell them stories about ghouls, old fairy tales. We laugh together. When they get tired, we all go to sleep together. 

ALMA: I have coloring pencils and we play together and have fun. Instead of remembering. When I’m alone I start to remember what happened and remember how life before used to be so nice. 

I dream that I will go to my grandmother. My grandmother in Germany, my dad’s mother. I want to go to her a lot. I miss her. I want to embrace her and she wants to embrace me. 

INTERVIEWER: What do you miss about your mum and dad? 

ALMA: Their embrace, honestly. I used to love being in their embrace. I feel their embrace was warm. In winter the best thing is to go and cuddle your mum and dad. Those were sweet days.

When this war is over, I will have nothing left. My childhood home is gone. The house we lived the best days of our lives in, is gone. Nothing is left for me when this war is over. That’s all.

In March, Reuters reported that Israel had completely destroyed 223 mosques in Gaza, and partially destroyed 289 others, including the Great Mosque of Gaza, first built in the 7th century. The Real News reports from the north of Gaza, where the faithful continue to worship amid the rubble and Israel’s ongoing slaughter.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Narrator:

On the 10th of August, 2024, 10 months and 3 days into Israel’s war on Gaza, Palestinians sheltering in a Al-Tabin school in the North of Gaza rose before sunrise to pray. As they prayed, an Israeli air strike targeted the school killing between 90 and 100 people according to Gaza’s civil defence agency, making the strike among the deadliest documented attacks since October 7th.

[Background]

“The targeting of Al-Tabin school… There is no God, but Allah! Are they breathing? Are they breathing?”

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

“Say God is great, say God is great!”

“Allah is sufficient for us, and he is the best on whom we depend.”

Narrator:

The expression this bereaved woman repeats, is one deeply rooted in Islamic faith. It is heard and repeated in hundreds of videos and interviews that have come out of Gaza in the last 10 months.

[Background]

“It’s a shame! It’s a shame! Allah is sufficient for us, and he is the best on whom we depend!”

“Allah is sufficient for us, and he is the best on whom we depend! Allah is sufficient for us, and he is the best on whom we depend! Strengthen your Faith. Fill your hearts with Faith. I swear God will save us..”

Narrator:

We met with congregation leader Imam Fehmi Khalil Al Masri, who still leads prayers from amidst the ruins of the Islam Mosque in Northern Gaza, which was targeted by Israeli air strikes earlier this year in the holy Muslim month of Ramadan.

IMAM FAHMI KHALIL AL MASRI:

Allah is sufficient for us, and he is the best on whom we depend. The enemy has attacked all the mosques in the city of Khan Yunis, and beyond it all the mosques of the entire Gaza Strip. Mosques that were frequented by all people, from all corners, in order to fulfill their obedience to God.

Narrator:

Mahmoud Ibrahim is 72 years old, he remembers the first day of arriving in Khan Yunis in the beginning of Ramadan after being displaced.

MAHMOUD IBRAHIM SADEH

In Ramadan… we were bombed in Ramadan. The first day of Ramadan, the mosque was bombed above us. Even our neighbors, around us, never got the opportunity to say hi. We were here two days before the mosque got bombed. We didn’t get to see any mosques or anything. First day of Ramadan — the second day, to be specific — it was bombed. [Do you miss praying in the mosque?] I can’t! I miss it, but I can’t go to pray anymore, when you’re injured and there are planes and bombs and drones and missiles and I don’t know what. We just want to survive these days and go home. My dream is to go and see my destroyed house and die there on the rubble of my house. I want nothing in this world.

Narrator:

According to a Gaza’s Ministry of Religious Affairs as of January 2024, 1000 of Gaza’s 1,200 mosques have been destroyed. Included in this list, is the destruction of the Great Mosque of Gaza, one of the oldest mosques in the world, dating back to the 7th Century when Islam first arrived in the region.

IMAM FAHMI KHALIL AL MASRI:

Since the start of this war, what took place on the 7th of October, the day of judgment began then and has continued. We are all scattered, displaced from place to place. In place of our beloved mosque, we now have a room that doesn’t protect us, neither from the heat of summer nor the cold of winter. The war and displacement has had a huge impact on my life — it has been full of torture, suffering, and misery. But, regardless of this, we do not run or weaken. We remain steadfast. We will pray on time and give the call to prayer, and whether we are few or many we will congregate, we will pray, even if it’s out in the open.

Narrator:

Despite the targeting of mosques, and worshippers within them, prayers continue. After Israel’s massacre of people praying at al-Tabin school, Israel claimed that 19 of the people killed were terrorists, a claim called into question by the Palestinian chairman of the Geneva-based Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor who says that the people killed were not involved in politics.

MAHMOUD IBRAHIM SADEH

We [went] to the mosque together with our friends, and my children went with me. Me and my children used to go every day, to pray and read the Quran and talk about everything. Apart from all that political stuff, we don’t get involved in that. I don’t feel right now like I’m alive. Me personally, after what’s happened to us, I feel nothing. I’ve lost hope. There’s not much life left for me. Here, my chest is broken, and here, my leg is too. Regardless of whether a bomb fell on me or not, I am not important in this world. Our whole life is just torture upon torture. Beginning with torture and ending with torture, wars — we haven’t seen anything good in our lives. We are not with this group or that group, we are not connected to anyone. We pray to Allah and that’s it.

Narrator:

Just like so many of Gazas homes, schools, hospitals and mosques, the great mosque of Gaza, has a long history of being destroyed – then rebuilt. Its minaret toppled in an earthquake in the 11th Century, destroyed by the crusaders in the 12th, by the mongols in the 13th and damaged by British bombs in WW1. Though it has once again been destroyed, it may yet see Gaza’s faithful gather to pray under its roof once more.

It’s been one year since Israel launched its genocidal war on Gaza, following the Hamas-led attacks on Oct. 7, 2023, and following 75 years of Israel’s Occupation of Palestine. More than half of the Gaza Strip’s buildings, businesses, roads, farms, hospitals, and schools have been completely destroyed. Over 41,000 people have been reported killed, with this number growing daily. To commemorate a year of what has been called “the most documented genocide in history,” TRNN asked some residents of Gaza to describe their year. This is what they told us.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Narrator:
It’s been one year since Israel launched its war on Gaza. More than half of the strip’s
buildings, businesses, roads, farms, hospitals, and schools have been completely destroyed.
Over 41 thousand people have been reported killed, with this number growing daily. The
Real News network asked some residents of Gaza to describe their year. This is what they
told us…

Sami Isa Ramadan:
No matter how much I try to explain, I couldn’t describe even 1% of what’s happened to us.
In general, this war will be recorded in history. It should have its own title page in history. For the whole world, eh? Not only in the Gaza Strip, or Palestine. This war of Oct. 7, of the
Israeli army on Gaza, needs to be studied in history, because schools, hospitals, buildings,
homes, fishermen, farmers, workers, there was nothing that was not targeted straightaway.

Narrator:
Sami Isa Ramadan has been displaced four times since Oct. 7th and now lives amidst the
rubble in a bombed-out building, in Deir Al Balah.

Sami Isa Ramadan:
I lost a brother — I don’t know if he’s in prison or dead. My siblings have been scattered.
Three of them were injured. A missile struck our neighbor’s house and three of them were
injured, and my father was killed. God rest his soul. I mean, it’s a catastrophe. Maybe the
camera — you are filming a tiny clip, out of millions of hours. To tell you the truth, I’m tired. Truly tired, you know what I mean? And this is my suffering. Out of 2 million people, I’m just one person.

Narrator:
While it’s true that Sami is indeed only one of around 2.2 million residents of the strip, his
experience does reflect the experiences of many of his fellow Gazans since October 7th.

Sabreen Badwan:
The first week of the war, the Israelis contacted us and said: “Your area is not safe, you must
evacuate. This is a combat area.” They threw leaflets. At first, we didn’t want to move, but
then when we saw most people leaving — it was like a sign of the day of judgment — If you
were to see it, it was like the Nakba of 1948. I mean, I felt it was like the scenes of the 1948
displacement that our ancestors lived through. We used to hear about it like an abstract
dream and couldn’t believe it. Then we lived and experienced it, except harsher and more
difficult.

Narrator:
A staggering 90% of Palestinians in Gaza have been displaced since October 7th, making it
an almost universal experience. Sabreen Badwan is from Tel Al Hawa, and like everyone we
spoke to, has moved multiple times attempting to find safety.

Sabreen Badwan:
I went to a house in Al Nuseirat, in the center of the Gaza strip. We spent a single night
there. That same night we awoke in the middle of a massacre. The entire block was
completely destroyed. From this day I was convinced the enemy was lying—there is no safe
place. I decided to move to a UNWRA school because before this war, as we used to know,
the UNWRA schools were safe.

Narrator:
According to UNRWA, Israeli forces have targeted a total of 190 UN-run facilities in the
course of the war. That’s despite the agency sharing the coordinates for each of its locations
well in advance. Two hundred and twenty UNRWA employees have been killed in Gaza over
the last year, making this the deadliest war for UN employees in United Nations history.

Sabreen Badwan:
During this war, everything changed. We went to live in a school for around three months,
then we were again warned to leave the area of the school because the Israelis told us it’s
not safe, it’s deadly and dangerous. So we left the school terrified, not knowing where to go,
as bombs were exploding. We were terrified. We didn’t know where to go. There was
nowhere for us to go. We went to a house: we were bombed. We went to a school: we were
bombed. Where should we go then? What do we do?

Ni’ma Ramlawi:
What should we do? Our entire house was flattened and we were displaced to Al Nuseirat,
and from there we came here. They took us to the schools. We were in Al Razi and then
they [the Israelis] took us.

Narrator:
Death has touched each and every person in Gaza since Oct. 7.

Ni’ma Ramlawi:
They hit our home, so we left — it collapsed on us. Our neighbors were killed. The entire
block behind us was destroyed. Our house collapsed.

Sabreen Badwan:
My father was killed at the beginning of the war. This saddened and preoccupied me a lot.
Especially because I couldn’t say goodbye to him. He was north of the Gaza river and I was
here south of the Gaza river. So I couldn’t say farewell, and this impacted me and my mental state.

Sami Isa Ramadan:
The war has affected everyone. There isn’t a family in the Gaza Strip that hasn’t been
injured by the occupation forces. The one who lost his dad, the one who lost his siblings,
there’s no family — me, my family is small, and approximately 20 people have gone. This
was my boys’ birthday party, in our modest and simple home.

Narrator:
The UN children’s agency has described Gaza as “a graveyard for children.” Children have
died from bombs, bullets, disease, and malnutrition at an alarming rate. And mental health
issues such as speech impediments and PTSD affect almost every child.

Ni’ma Ramlawi:
The war has affected children and young people badly.

Sami Isa Ramadan:
The children, my children, for example. For the basics, mosquitoes — we haven’t got a
solution. Aside from the skin diseases that have spread, the epidemics that have affected
the old and the young. As you can see, I’m sure you have seen the suffering of the children,
especially the children.

Ni’ma Ramlawi:
What? After a year of war? What more do they want to happen to us? Hunger! Everyone is
hungry. And they died of hunger. And with this war, they killed us and killed our children.
They’re martyrs. They bombed our homes. There’s no house left for us to live in — neither
us nor our children. Are we going to stay like this in tents? And the winter is coming, too.
Look at how we are. Exhaustion and sickness— we are grown adults and we can’t manage
our mental state. There’s children — my grandson has malnutrition grade 2 from the
situation we are in.

Narrator:
Ruined infrastructure, open sewage, a lack of hospitals and medication, and communicable
disease have now become a threat for the people of Gaza.

Shohda Abu Ajweh:
God has afflicted us, aside from the war, with another war: the war of diseases and no
medications. I mean, my grandchildren are suffering from chicken pox, we haven’t found any medications. Not to mention the contaminated water and the open sewage. The Israelis
targeted infrastructure on purpose to provoke the spread of disease. Right now the borders
are closed. People are not receiving any aid, so people are suffering. They’re suffering from
everything, from a lack of everything. We ask Allah to remove this affliction and to help all
our people.

Riadh al Drimli:
Even if things were available, there’s no money to buy it. It’s really expensive! And there’s no income on top, I’m telling you. For example, I make 20 shekels ($5.30). What am I going to do with that 20 shekels ($5.30)? I can buy some drinking water or bring something for the house? It’s not enough!

Narrator:
Riad al Drimli used to work as an electrician, since October 7th, he was displaced alongside
his family and is now selling falafel to try to make ends meet.

Riad al Drimli:
I mean, what can I say? A lot of suffering. From tent to tent and ants and worms. Maybe for
someone living in the rubble of their destroyed house would probably be nicer than the tents, the sewage, the water, and all the problems. Feel for us! You Arabs: rise up against these oppressors. Look at our suffering! Forget about us: what about our children! Our daughters! People are being slaughtered – and they are okay watching us bleed?

Marwan Ibrahim Salem:
My message to the whole world — the Arab world, to Europe, to East to West — to all — is
to stand with the oppressed people. Because this nation is oppressed. And oppression never
lasts. I ask for an end to the war, and the return of people to their homes, and the rebuilding
of our homes. That’s what I ask from the world.

I hope to return to my home! Me and my wife. People want to return to their land! To return to Gaza city, to our neighborhood. To our families. To see who’s good, and who’s dead.

Sami Isa Ramadan:
To this day, the bodies of my relatives are still buried under the rubble, from
the early days of the war. All the buildings you see here, they were bombed with people in them, they collapsed on people’s backs. On people’s heads. There’s no phone call, warning you: ‘Hello, you need to leave the house’ —- no —- the house is flattened with people still inside. This is a cowardly and savage army. It has no humanity.

I have experienced the most bitter experience here. For me, the worst experience I have
ever had is living in a tent. We are the living dead, here in this tent. A death sentence. We
have been sentenced to death — they just haven’t carried out the execution. And our faith is
in God. It’s in God’s hands.

Israel’s genocide in Gaza is a genocide of children. Prior to last October, nearly half the population of Gaza were children. The official death toll, now regarded by many to be a severe undercount, accounts for more than 15,000 children killed by Israeli forces in the past eight months. For the majority of children who have survived, life will never be the same. Displacement, martyrdom of family members, and the exigencies of daily survival have placed a tremendous burden on these children’s shoulders. The Real News reports from Gaza.

Videographer: Ruwaida Amer
Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Narrator:

“Gaza has become a graveyard for thousands of children. It’s a living hell for everyone else.” These words stated by UNICEF spokesperson James Elder on October 31st, 2023.
Since then around 15,000 children have lost their lives, more than the number of children killed in conflicts in the entire world in the past four years put together. Now, mass starvation is set to replace bombs as the deadliest threat to Gaza’s children.

For those who have survived, it’s hard to imagine how they will remain children.

Child:

They killed my mum and dad in front of me. My only friend who used to play with me died.

Narrator:

In the makeshift refugee camps in the South of Gaza, 10 year old Shams evacuated her home under shelling and is now living in a tent with her family.

Shams:

We kids are not living in safety, we could die and also, haven’t lived a nice life. When I walk down the street they bomb and I get scared.

The bathroom is far, so if I need to go I wake mum or dad to take me because the sounds of planes and drones are really loud, and there’s the sound of bombing from afar.

Narrator:

Shams’ dad Hossemmedin has had to watch his children go from worrying about school to worrying about drones.

Hossemmedin:

I evacuated with my children we left beneath air-strikes and destruction. We left and the situation was very very very dangerous. Honestly, I risked it because of my children, I wanted to protect my children.

I live in a residential tower, and the Israelis contacted us and said we need to evacuate. They didn’t even give us a chance for us to leave in peace.

On the contrary, we evacuated under destruction and bombs, and the dead and martyred were scattered on the street. I was holding my kids and hugging them and protecting them so they couldn’t see these scenes. Because they were scenes that as much as I say are beyond description.

Shams:

There’s no safety, when we’re walking it’s normal for them to bomb at any moment, and I get scared.

Narrator:

Shams isn’t only scared for her own safety, but the safety of her parents too.

Shams:

Because the Israelis are like this, they bomb in any place, to them it’s normal, and mom and dad sometimes they go out and I get scared for them. When they bomb somewhere, I get scared.

Narrator:

And becoming an orphan with no surviving parents is not an abstract fear—but a commonplace reality in Gaza today, that realistically could happen to any child.

Child:

What is your name?

Mohammad.

Mohammad, tell us, how has Ramadan been so far?

Ramadan has been. Ramadan has not been good to me. Because I’m alone. With no mother or father.

Why, where are your parents?

Martyred.

When?

On October 29.

How were they martyred?

My father sent me to get some Maggi from the store and they (Israel) bombed the whole neighborhood. The neighborhood was unrecognizable. So I went to the Indonesian hospital and found my parents in shrouds.

Hossemmedin:

The war stole everything from the children. Everything related to childhood. Everything related to humanity. I mean, children, what do they want? A child is innocent. What does a child want?

She’s always asking me about Leo. Leo is her cat. She says I miss him, I wanna go and see him. I miss my grandad, I miss playing with my friends. I miss school, studying and the teachers.

Shams:

The war took from me my friends. I used to play with them.

[Where are they?]

In Rafah

[They died?]

No. But I miss them so much.

Narrator:

Gaza’s children have been forced to grow up fast… videos show children talking, moving and expressing themselves in adult ways, on themes that not even grown adults should ever have to face.

Woman:

How do you see the war?

Girl:

It’s Ugly. From the start of the war, I became ugly too. I was beautiful, my face was bigger. I was beautiful. But we became ugly because of the corpses.

Anas:

They have humiliated us with the aid parachutes that they dropped into the Sea! We live in Tel Al Zaatar, they threw the aid into the sea so we came here like dogs! I came to get food for my younger siblings who are screaminging with hunger. I swear I didn’t get anything. I swear to God I didn’t get anything.

Hossemmedin:

Behavior has had to change. It’s out of their hands. And out of our hands. They were removed from their environment and forced into a new one. So in the end they have to adjust to this new place they were forced into—in tents and so on—so in the end the behavior changed, their mannerisms changed.

Reem:

Their mentality changed, their talking changed. A lot of things have changed. They are not like they used to be. They used to be normal , but with the fear they changed a lot.

Narrator:

Reem is another parent who, alongside millions of others, was forced to flee her home with her family and now lives in a tent in Rafah. Her son is 14 year old Abdallah.

Abdullah “Aboud”:

We’re scared, we’re scared to walk on the streets because there isn’t anywhere safe, in any place in the whole of the Gaza strip, there isn’t safety.

The bombing was really strong, they were bombing belts of fire on people and they were running, and dead people scattered on the ground, the situation was really hard.

When we hear the sound of bombs, we start shaking, our hearts stop. That’s it, we’re scared.

[What did the war take from you?]

What did it take from me?

My childhood. They stole my childhood from me. My life was lost. No learning, no studies, nothing: no opportunity.

I fear for my mum and dad in the war. Because suddenly missiles could fall and they’ll be killed. My aunt, my cousins, neighbors, the neighbors’ children, relatives, friends… so many…

[What happened to them?]

They were killed.

Narrator:

Despite it all, kids will be kids, and moments of joy, laughter and along with it hope, remain.

Abdullah “Aboud”:

In the morning we wake up, we wash our faces, brush our teeth… We get up and get food from the store, and come back.

Laughs

[Background: No Aboud, don’t laugh.]

Abdullah “Aboud”:

It ‘s her!

Reem:

No, he doesn’t brush his teeth!

Abdullah “Aboud”:

Laughs

Reem:

He makes me laugh! Stop making me laugh, enough. Stop it! [What are your dreams?]

Abdullah “Aboud”:

That suddenly the war ends. They have a ceasefire. Go to Gaza. That’s all I want. I don’t want anything else.

Shams:

God willing we will live in peace and God will protect us all. Allah grant patience to those whose families were killed or martyred and take revenge on the Israelis.

Shams [singing]:

We return, oh love,
We return,
Oh you, the flower of the poor, We return, oh love,
To love’s abode,
filled with the fire of love,
We return… 

Over 1.9 million residents of Gaza have been forced to flee their homes since the start of Israel’s relentless bombing campaign over two months ago. In the south of the Gaza Strip, the city of Khan Yunis, or Khan Younis, has become a temporary destination for the millions seeking safety from the bombing. Yet Khan Yunis is no refuge. Makeshift refugee camps without electricity or water now serve as holding pens for countless families on the brink. The trickle of aid that makes it through the blockade of Gaza is totally insufficient to meet the people’s needs. As stockpiles dwindle and prices soar, the problem only intensifies. Gaza’s displaced may have survived the bombing up until now—but now they must survive hunger, thirst, and disease, all while the war extends into Khan Yunis itself. The Real News reports from Khan Yunis.

Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt
Videographer: Ruwaida Amer
Video Editor: Leo Erhardt

Transcript

Narrator:

Since early October, Israeli bombs have been raining down on Gaza, causing apocalyptic devastation and the deaths of over 20,000 Palestinians and counting. Many hundreds of thousands more have been displaced, with an estimated 1 million people homeless
and without stable shelter. Whilst nowhere in Gaza is safe, many residents fled the North

to the southern area of Khan Yunis, where bombing and fighting is less intense. Here, make-shift refugee camps have sprung up, becoming temporary refuge for hundreds of thousands. Randa Hammoudeh left her home in the Jabalia district early on in the war.

Randa Hammoudeh

We came here to the Sina’a area, this was around 50 days ago, there were no tents. We stayed one night and two days exactly in the heat and the sun where our faces got burnt.
My face is two colors, as you can see. This was from around 50 days ago. We had no blankets, we had no covers, no sheets – nothing at all. We came with what we had, light things for the summer. We slept, and after much suffering they gave us this tent, after two days of being exposed. I have 6 daughters, they’re young at university, you can imagine the situation. The bathrooms are far away, you need around 10 minutes to get to them. You have to wait your turn. I swear it takes 2 hours to get into the bathroom. Of course they’re not clean. Often you arrive and find that the water is cut off. There’s no water, no hygiene. Honestly, if you were not desperate you would not go in.

Narrator:

Nearly 50% of Gaza’s residents are children. This is Taysir Ali Dibba, his harrowing story of survival is common in the displaced camps of Khan Yunis.

Taysir Ali Dibba:

We got trapped in the school, we were trapped for 6 days. We were waiting for two days
just to drink water. We found it where? In the supermarket, we entered it. We entered the supermarket and after an hour and a half there was shooting. One guy was shot in his shoulder. My relatives stayed in the center of the supermarket. I took off my shirt, and we made a small flag, and we managed to take everyone out. The next day on Friday, we needed water. We told the soldiers that we needed water, they didn’t even respond to us
or even acknowledge us. I found my sister had gone up to the bathroom upstairs.

They shot her where? In her chest. She died. As I was trying to get to her, they shot at me, one bullet grazed my stomach here and a second bullet hit my wrist: it went in here, and came out here. We buried her, we buried her that evening. We buried her next to the school. Not just her, we found dead bodies in the streets, they shot them, we brought them in and buried them.

Narrator:

Despite experiences like this being a dime a dozen, for displaced people there is no time to process or recover, instead people are busy with the urgent task of staying alive.

In order to do this, water is crucial: in the rare points where water is available, people have to queue in line, then carry water back often across long distances and manually.

Man:

I’ve been here since dawn, I prayed and came. We’re here to fill water. It’s coming out at a drip, they haven’t opened it fully. If it was coming out normally, we would have finished and gone by now.

Randa Hammoudeh:

What can I say? Our life is covered in sand. However much you clean you find sand everywhere, in summer or in winter. No matter how much we clean the barrels to fill them with clean water, there’s no use. Diarrhea, flu, cough, bowel movements: we all got it: old and young. Clean water wasn’t available, we were drinking from the well which was not good for drinking but we didn’t find anything else.

Narrator:

The World Health Organisation has warned that more people could yet die from disease in Gaza than from bombings and invasion, indicating that the worst could yet be ahead. Malnutrition, disease, unclean water and harsh weather all represent a looming threat to the displaced. Yusuf Hammoudeh is another displaced resident of Khan Yunis.

Yusuf Hammoudeh:

There’s nowhere to hide from the rain apart from the tent. It’s possible that a gust of wind might take the tent or it might collapse. The last time it rained: me and my children tried to secure the tent, the wind was pulling it too and we got completely drenched trying to make sure it won’t fly away. It was honestly very hard. You need a peg, a clip, some wire, some string, some rope, to hold the tent – you won’t find it. Life here, it’s like we have returned to the Stone Age. We are living in the Stone Age. We don’t know how things are going to go.

Narrator:

Itaf Qays Abu Abdou, is old enough to remember the multiple previous wars on Gaza, but she says that this time, it’s different.

Itaf Qays Abu Abdou:

In 2014, I didn’t leave my house. I have never seen a war like this war. At all. It’s really hard for us, with water, with food and drink there’s no electricity there’s no light for us we stay in the dark until the morning.

You can see life is hard, the circumstances are hard, they gave us cleaning materials only once and we need to bring the water by hand. And we can’t, I am not well, I have a disability from the previous war, what are we supposed to do? We go to the bathrooms and there you

have to wait in line. And you can’t find a drop of water and there’s no electricity, it keeps cutting off. We don’t have anything.

Narrator:

Despite the simplest of food stuffs like oil, flour and rice becoming more and more scarce, local citizens, like shop owner Jamil Abu Asiy, are taking matters into their own hands.

Jamil Abu Asiy:

Before there were NGOs cooking, now there aren’t. So I started to cook a part for sale and the other part for the displaced – of course from the north. Our goal of this project cooking on fires is to safeguard food of the displaced people and to safeguard food for people. We used to be 4 people cooking, but now we are just one. The other guy spends dawn till dusk trying to secure either rice or oil. This used to be worth 16 or 15 shekels ($4 USD), now it’s 30 shekels ($8 USD) and it’s not available. This wood used to cost 1 shekel ($0.30 USD) now it costs 3 shekels ($1 USD) and it’s not available. However, we will continue and god willing we will not stop until we breathe our last breath, God willing.

Narrator:

In the face of all these hardships, Palestinians seem not only to survive, but to thrive… holding firm in the face of adversity and often with good humor.

Woman:

Until when are we gonna be stuck with the dough?!
Until when are we gonna be stuck in the tent? Until when?

They are outside chatting, while we’re stuck in the tent! We are powerful women, we are steadfast women.

We thank God in all situations.
Hopefully, with God’s grace, the war will end for good. God willing.