Two weeks in Gaza

Editor’s note:

How should we cover the war in Gaza?

This magazine is committed to telling human stories from the world’s peripheries. Gaza is one of those places — yet telling its story feels close to impossible.

Journalists are barred from entering. Misinformation abounds. Editorial standards that would usually hold are loosened in the fog of war.

The result is an abundance of opinion and armchair analysis, rather than first-person testimony from those who live there.

Hasan Jabr lives in the Al-Bureij refugee camp, in the centre of Gaza, with his wife and three children. Before the war, he worked for Al-Ayyam — a pro-Fatah newspaper partially funded by the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank, and banned by Hamas in Gaza. He has also worked as a translator and fixer for international outlets, including Le Monde and The Globe and Mail.

Hasan is an outspoken critic of the violence committed by both Hamas and Israel’s armed forces. Over the past fortnight, I asked him to keep a diary for Dispatch: a human record of daily life.

You can read the result below. As always, please send any thoughts to letters@dispatch-media.com.

This morning, the sky over Al-Bureij camp was again filled with planes dropping boxes of food. As the packages fell, people rushed from all directions — young, old, barefoot children — chasing the chance to survive one more day.

Some saw the planes as salvation; others feared the falling boxes might injure someone. I noticed a boy freeze mid-run, staring at the sky as if waiting for a miracle.

In Al-Bureij camp, water arrives once every two weeks because fuel shortages have shut down Gaza’s water stations and pumps. When it comes, we collect it in large barrels, pulling them to the roof with ropes.

Each family receives enough for two days, sometimes less. Even then, we face a choice. Should we use it to drink, cook, or clean ourselves?

Life here is measured not in days or weeks, but in litres.

We are one of the lucky families. Our house has been hit by live fire at least six times and the windows are long gone. The walls are cracked and the floors are damaged — but at least it’s still standing.

A few days ago, my brother and his family came to stay with us after warnings of nearby bombings. They were living in Al-Bureij camp too, but their neighbourhood was becoming increasingly dangerous. They left everything behind, not knowing if they would ever return.

Our house is not small, but with two families living in it, it feels tighter by the day. There’s no privacy, no silence. We all share one bathroom.

Sometimes we argue over small things — like whose turn it is to use the bathroom, or how to divide the limited water.

But deep down, our frustration is about something else. It’s about the pressure of waiting, the fear of what’s next, and the uncertainty that surrounds us.

Today, I sat with the children of my nephew, killed in this war when his in-laws’ house was bombed in Rafah. Abdel Fattah is five; Amna is two. They are very young, yet they speak like they’ve lived a hundred years.

A few days ago, when a missile fell nearby, Abdel Fattah said calmly: “We’re used to it. We’re not scared.” I think they were trying to comfort us. His sister played in a tiny tent made of blankets. Each time she heard an explosion, she shouted “Boom!” and laughed.

For breakfast we had some falafel with bread — quiet, simple, and enough to keep us going. Lunch was plain spaghetti. We felt lucky to eat something warm.

The markets are almost empty. Food, if found, is either too expensive or too far, and going out is dangerous. When we have rice or lentils, we use them sparingly to make them last. Canned food is now a rarity, each tin a treasure.

Since the war began, our home has been without electricity. Without solar panels, we rely on batteries charged outside.

This morning, I sent my children to take our batteries and phones to a nearby charging point at our neighbour’s house. He has solar panels and runs a small business charging phones and batteries.

We were lucky this time. Sometimes the children return with little or no charge because of crowding or sudden cuts.

I use my phone mainly for Telegram updates on airstrikes, evacuations, or aid distributions, and to check that relatives elsewhere in Gaza are still alive. I also use it for my work as a journalist — writing reports, communicating with editors, coordinating with colleagues. Despite everything, it remains my most important tool.

Today, for the first time in months, I was able to buy sugar. It’s rare to see it in the market — and when it is available, it costs more than $100 per kilo.

Today, it was cheaper — still expensive, but possible. About $20 per kilo. I bought a small amount.

At home, I made the first cup of tea with sugar in months. We all laughed.

This evening, I sat outside my house with two friends, trying to steal a quiet moment. We spoke about Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu’s plan to re-occupy Gaza, which had just been announced.

The conversation wasn’t really political —more about how tired people are, and how unsure the future feels.

What does re-occupation mean? More checkpoints? More control? More hunger? For us, it doesn’t seem like a step towards peace, only another round of suffering.

Today I went to the market to look for flour, canned meat, and vegetables. Most goods come from local farmers or traders who manage to bring supplies through the crossings.

Visiting the market has become routine: checking prices, hearing sellers complain that everything costs more, and then, if you’re lucky, buying what little you can.

At home, my wife cooked supper. The children helped by lighting the fire.

On my way to my brother’s house, I saw children carrying school bags. Regular schooling stopped more than a year and a half ago. Since then, most schools have been destroyed or turned into shelters.

Some teachers still try, gathering small groups in tents or damaged buildings, but it is not enough. We talk often about Gaza’s young generation, and how they will be radicalised. Without education, what else can we expect?

This morning we woke up to the death of another journalist.

I didn’t know Anas Al-Sharif personally, but he was an important voice during this war. A journalist with Al Jazeera, he reported on our hardship honestly and bravely.

Some say he had ties to Hamas, but all we saw were his reports on our daily lives. That’s the thing about being a journalist in Gaza. We’re not just reporters; we’re part of this people, living the same fear and suffering.

I had not planned to go to the hospital, but I’ve developed an infection from a previous hospital visit, and I had no choice.

Inside, there were no beds or mattresses. Many people with injuries were lying on the floor, waiting for care. Some were bleeding, others crying in pain.

I left as quickly as I could.

Today I visited four different pharmacies looking for medicine. Most were empty or had very little stock, and the few medicines left were extremely expensive. I heard that some trucks carrying medicine had been attacked.

Sometimes armed gangs steal medical supplies to sell on the black market. These groups are not Hamas, but criminal gangs taking advantage of the situation.

Inside each pharmacy, we waited patiently but left empty-handed. To survive, we are forced to skip doses or delay care.

Today, I read about proposals to resettle people from Gaza in South Sudan. The idea feels unreal. South Sudan is not only a world away in distance, but in language and culture. For most people here, it is the first time they have even heard its name.

It all feels like an attempt to erase us, to scatter us across the world. Gaza is not just where we live; it is where our families are buried, where our memories exist.

Still, people are exhausted, and some say they would go anywhere for safety. But most I know would rather remain here, even in danger, than live as strangers somewhere else.

Hasan Jber is a journalist based in Gaza. He works for Al-Ayyam in the West Bank.

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