Gaza, at the edge of the earth

It took over an hour to reach this camp close to the yellow line¹. We will not be staying here long; it is too dangerous. Simply approaching this boundary can be enough to trigger gunfire. Yet Jihan, Deyab, and a few dozen others live in tents on the edge of the restricted zone, amidst the rubble of northern Gaza. Evacuation orders forced them to leave their homes during the war. The ceasefire in October 2025 allowed them to come back here, in the hope of returning to their houses. Unfortunately, all they found were ruins. As far as the eye can see, there is nothing but grey and beige rubble. Now and then, a white tent stands out. In this chilling, inhuman, dystopian environment, people live.  

Water brings people together

There are no wells here. And of course, no shops. So, everything is difficult. To get water, residents rely on the SOLIDARITÉS INTERNATIONAL water tanker which comes several times a week. Containers, lined up in a row, queue patiently on behalf of their owners. As the vehicle approaches, heads pop up from the ruins and converge on the supply point. Everyone reaches for the taps along the sides of the lorry to fill up their jerrycans. It is a moment to be a bit livelier, to chat with those nearby – the atmosphere is fairly relaxed. Children help their fathers. Teenagers take turns filling a large communal tank. Then, each of them picks up their containers and returns to their tent with heavy steps. As they round a bend, they disappear into the rubble, and silence settles once more.  

Inside the tents, anxiety

This everyday scene is a moment of joy in the bleak daily life of displaced families. Sitting on a mattress on the floor, Jihan smiles gently. Yet her spirits and her health are at an all-time low. Her devastated home is just a few metres away. She now lives in this tent, which consists of a single room of about fifteen square metres. “There are eight of us living in this tent. We’re suffocating.” 

The family previously made a living from fishing, but that is now forbidden. So, along with her husband Deyab, Jihan is filled with anxiety and suffering. Their eldest son, now a young adult, should be married and starting a life of his own. Instead, his future has been shattered by war. He roams the streets looking for objects, bits of plastic, metal, or tile that he can sell. “I have another son, aged 13. He’s the one who breaks my heart the most,” she explains. “After carrying water, collecting food and finding wood to cook with… he picks up his exercise books. He says his only dream is to study.” 

A stolen future

In this camp in northern Gaza, the future offers no hope. Already, the temperatures are beginning to rise. The tents trap the heat. There is no refrigeration and nowhere to cool off. Pests are multiplying, and the water shortage is becoming ever more severe. People here watch with apprehension as summer sets in.  

And then, the long term. No one knows what will happen. A whole generation of children has already been deprived not only of their education, but also of their childhood, their health, and their future. Jihan’s voice breaks as she repeats her son’s words: “We are corpses on borrowed time.” No one dares to continue the conversation. Beyond the camp, the Mediterranean, indifferent, glistens in the blazing sun.  

Notes : 
¹ The yellow line is a military boundary, established under the peace plan, which separates the part of Gaza controlled by the Israeli army from the area where Palestinians live. 

Photos : © SOLIDARITÉS INTERNATIONAL