Displacement of Palestinians within Gaza

Part three of the Reports from Gaza series

The above map shows the current situation in the Gaza Strip in terms of Israeli military zones, displacement orders, and crossings.

⦁ Purple-shaded areas: Israeli military zones that require coordination for any humanitarian movement.

⦁ Red areas: Areas under displacement orders issued since March 18.

⦁ Dark areas: Areas with a combination of military zones and displacement orders.

⦁ Orange circles: Crossings that are completely closed (such as the Rafah crossing).

⦁ Blue circles: Crossings that are only partially open for humanitarian cases or limited entry of goods.

⦁ Grey circles: Crossings that are permanently closed.

The map highlights that 82.6% of Gaza is either a military zone or under displacement orders, meaning that residents are confined to very small areas with limited movement or exit, and most crossings are closed or severely restricted.

Below are the entries of Aziz Samir, one of the many Palestinians displaced by the cruel Israeli assault upon Gaza. The heroic fortitude of the Palestinians and the strong spirit of their communities have allowed them to persevere through the extreme conditions caused by the blockade. Nonetheless, the physical and mental well-being of the Palestinians is deteriorating as the crisis deepens. We must call upon our governments to put an end to the genocide and organize a collaborative effort to improve conditions in Gaza.

-Nathan Black

Between Yesterday and Today

The story of a dream shattered by the rubble of war...

Before the war, my life wasn't perfect, but it was full of hope. I worked in a medical facility, surrounded by a wonderful professional team, serving patients with passion and building a professional future step by step. I would wake up every morning believing I was on the path to success, that my hard work would pay off, and that I would achieve something big for myself and my country.

I had endless ambitions... I saw myself developing, specializing, completing my studies, and launching humanitarian medical projects that would make a difference in people's lives. I believed that tomorrow would be better.

But the war turned everything upside down.

One day, I woke up not to my alarm clock, but to the sounds of shelling and explosions. There was no longer an institution, no work, no stability. Everything suddenly disappeared. My future hung in the balance.

Today, I live in a tent in a displacement camp. The mud is under my feet, the scorching sun is above my head, and the lines for water and food have become part of my daily routine.  Between the sound of shells and the cries of children, I try to pull myself together, to remind myself that I was once something... and that I might return to being something.

No one can imagine what it means to go to bed hungry, to be deprived of your privacy, your comfort, your dignity. But the hardest part of all is being forced to bury your dreams with your own hands, to watch your future evaporate before your eyes, without the power to save it.

Yet, I still believe that this darkness will not last. Life may be torn apart now, but I have not lost faith that we will return... we will rebuild... and we will prove that dreams never die.

—Abdulaziz Al-Najjar

#DreamUnderTheRubble

#FromHomeToTent

#Gaza

#RightToLife

#Displaced

625 Days of Absence

625 days ago, I left my home and never returned. I don't remember exactly when the lights went out behind me, but I remember clearly how I closed the door, not realizing that I was bidding farewell to an entire life at that moment. Since then, I've been moving like a dry branch blown away by the wind... from house to tent, from tent to house, then to another, and so on, endlessly. The only privacy I have left is a longing for it. We, my small family of 10, live in one room or one multi-functional tent no larger than 20 square meters, where the air is shared, our breaths are intertwined, and our concerns are one... heavy, silent, and increasing day by day.

I no longer have a room whose door I can close to think.

I no longer have a desk where I can rest my head, escape, and meditate.

I no longer have a small basement where I used to exercise, release my tension, disperse my stress, and gather my strength again.

I used to think that the pressures I was escaping were the height of exhaustion... but now, I realize they were a luxury I never fully appreciated. Now, there's no time to think, no place for solitude. Every thought that crosses my mind crosses my entire family's mind. There are no longer any secrets; the place has become a body exposed to all. Every question is asked out loud, every answer is said publicly, and every emotion is spilled in public. This reality eats at my nerves. Sometimes I get tense, angry, and scream...not because I'm tough, but because I'm on the verge of collapse.

But I don't have the luxury of collapse. I'm the breadwinner, and I have to stay strong, no matter how broken I feel inside. I regret it later, but I no longer have a space to breathe, to be alone with myself, to regain my composure, or to regroup. Perhaps the hardest part of all this is that I see the years of my life eroding before my eyes, and I can't do anything.

In the midst of this entire storm,

Every day that passes, we lose a part of ourselves.

Every day that passes, we witness how life robs us of the present and the future.

I wonder at night, tearing myself apart in silence: How long?

How long will we continue to wait for a door that won't open?

A horizon that doesn't appear?

And dignity that won't come?

625 days...

of absence,

of alienation within our land,

of wandering and waiting.

We live without privacy, without education, without stability, without a moment of calm. But despite all this, I try to be their father and support, their wall and their shade, the only voice that doesn't break. Perhaps, one day, they will tell this story... not from the perspective of suffering, but from the perspective of survival. It is exhausting and draining for me, but from another perspective, that we have not surrendered to oppression, despite everything. But how long can we endure and be patient?

Writings from my tent... Mawasi Khan Yunis

Diary | Gaza – The Line of Hunger and Heartbreak

Date: Saturday, June 15, 2025

By: Aziz

The suffering keeps growing. Every day feels heavier than the one before. Food is vanishing, and hunger is no longer a fear — it's a daily reality. We stand in long lines just to taste a spoonful of something warm, something that reminds us we're still human.

Today, I stood in line at the charity kitchen — what we now call “the line of life.” I had been waiting for nearly an hour, like everyone else, under the hot sun, dizzy from fatigue and hunger. Around me, people leaned on walls or sat on the ground, too weak to stand. We’ve become shadows of who we were.

Then I saw him.

A small boy, maybe seven or eight years old. His clothes were worn thin, his eyes swollen from crying or sleepless nights. He had been waiting quietly, patiently, for hours. When his turn finally came, he was handed a small bowl of lentil soup. He looked at it like it was treasure.

But as he turned to leave, his little hand slipped, and the bowl fell to the ground. The soup splattered across the dirt.

He froze. Then, without a word, his face crumpled and he broke into loud, painful sobs — the kind that tear into your soul. People turned to look, but no one spoke. It was as if time stopped, paralyzed by the cruelty of this moment.

My heart couldn’t take it.

I walked up to him and gave him my bowl. I told him, “Take it, habibi. You need it more than I do.” He looked up at me through his tears, too stunned to speak. Just nodded. I patted his head and turned back, walking to the end of the line once more — another hour under the sun, just to get something to eat.

It wasn’t an act of kindness. It was the only thing my heart could do.

This is Gaza now. A place where children cry over spilled soup, and grown men wait for hours to feed their families. A place where heartbreak has become part of our daily routine.

But still, we stand. Still, we give. Still, we hope — because if we lose that, we lose everything.

Diary from Forgotten Gaza – Thursday, June 19, 2025

✍️ By: Aziz, from a tent on the southern edge

Today passed slowly and heavily, as if time itself is suffocating here.

No voice from the world reaches us, and none of ours gets out. The internet has been cut off — as if someone decided to blind us from everything, and blind the world from us.

I live in an isolation unlike anything humans should endure.

The bombing never stops. Dozens of martyrs fall every day. Hunger devours us, and prices soar like we’re living in a ghost city, not a blockaded disaster zone.

The whole world is now busy with the war between Iran and Israel.

All eyes are there. All headlines are there. And Gaza? Gaza has become a forgotten footnote, a fading echo of unbearable pain.

We are dying in silence. We are suffering in darkness. And no one is paying attention.

I can no longer count the names of the martyrs, nor the days we’ve spent in displacement and fear.

I write these words not knowing if they will ever reach anyone or be read someday — but I write them just to prove that we were here, that we suffered, that we lived through days no human should ever experience.

We are not numbers.

We are human beings — with flesh, dreams, pain, and hope. We just want to live with dignity. We just want someone to listen.

— Aziz

From Gaza, silenced, bleeding, and abandoned.

Every morning a gazelle wakes up in Africa. It must run faster than a lion, or it will die.

And every morning a lion wakes up. It must run faster than a gazelle, or it will die of hunger.

It doesn't matter who you are—a gazelle or a lion; when the sun rises, you have to run!

—Aziz

Despite the horrors we’ve endured for decades—displacement, siege, massacres, and the daily struggle to survive—our people continue to hold on. We are rooted in our land with a love and determination that cannot be broken. Generation after generation, we’ve paid a heavy price: lives lost, homes destroyed, futures shattered. Yet we continue to rise with dignity.

Our strength doesn’t come from weapons, but from spirit. From the mother who rebuilds her home again and again. From the father who plants an olive tree where a tank once stood. From the child who grows up knowing that justice is on their side.

The Palestinian people have never surrendered, and we never will. Our struggle is not only for survival, but for truth, dignity, and the right to live freely on our land. We know this path is long, but history has shown that resilience rooted in justice always outlasts power rooted in oppression. Palestine will remain, and its people will remain—steadfast, unbroken, and full of humanity.