Humanity in a Place of Our Own

Reflections from Gaza

As a ceasefire tenuously holds, we can begin to ask if the longest and most brutal war Gaza has ever experienced is truly over. We can begin to take stock of what the people of Gaza have survived and suffered. And we can begin to build a new reality: one defined by freedom, dignity, and above all a respect for humanity.

The terror imposed on the people of Gaza has, exemplifying their struggle, against all odds, been broadcast across the world. Emerging stories have vacillated between the horrific and the inspiring; tales of tragedy and heroism that have revitalized international solidarity and newfound interest in the Palestinian Question. So too did they color my expectations as I prepared to visit this past December. I anticipated our experiences would reflect the same extremes — and there were certainly moments of sobering suffering and inspiring courage — but these were outnumbered by graceful displays of humor and hospitality, of kindness and compassion, and of aspirations, not for victory or vengeance, but for a return to the ordinary.

No aspect of life in Gaza is ordinary – bombs strike without warning, tarped ceilings flutter in the wind, drones buzz incessantly overhead – markers of the war are as unrelenting as they are widespread. As institutions have literally crumbled, community has taken outsized importance. Anera, true to its motto, has established a stalwart presence, delivering life-sustaining aid and injecting a sense of stability and hope into the communities served that cuts through the fog of war. This was made evident within moments of our arrival.

We entered through Kerem Shalom crossing alongside a trickle of aid trucks, our progress encumbered by suspicion and ambivalence. We were met by Sami Matar, Anera’s Project Coordinator, who would serve as our translator and guide, navigating divides both linguistic and emotional. No sooner had we begun our drive than a flurry of warning shots inducted us into the desperate reality of Gaza. We advanced slowly towards firearms pointed at the passenger side, wielded, to our surprise, by teenagers whose youthful faces belied the severity of their stares. Sami, well-versed in moments of crisis, spoke with calm and familiarity, treating them not as threats but compatriots, and informed them that we were with Anera. The situation quickly diffused as fear turned to appreciation — “you’ve helped us” — as they waved us through.

Upon our arrival to Khan Younis, we received a kind reception from Anera’s health staff and were provided an overview of their operations – a tent in Mawasi housed a clinic that, despite makeshift equipment, an undersupply of medicine, and overworked staff operated with astounding success. The ingenuity required fostered a sense of admiration, tempered by a reminder of the punishingly abnormal conditions that predominate. Those we spoke to were reluctant to accept praise, instead emphasizing how their achievements were borne of survival. This insistence — that we humanize their experience — was one expressed a myriad of ways, consciously and otherwise, during our time in Gaza.

As we drove through the labyrinthine network of tents that comprise Khan Younis camp, Sami expressed the lingering disbelief that his and so many others’ homes had been reduced to such primitive quarters. Life had not been easy in the days and years that predated the war, but the months since had threatened that most human of qualities, dignity. I saw his words written across the faces of the inhabitants we passed, struggling in ways imagination could not evoke. The injustice of it all was rendered concrete, and my thoughts drifted to the most powerless and prominent faces in Gaza – its children.

Our next stop was to a psychosocial event designed to soothe emotional wounds not yet permitted to scar. Here was a small oasis amidst the sanded tent floors, where children performed in front of a crowd of their loved ones. Here was a chance to be celebrated instead of attacked. Here was a chance to feel normal and a chance, if only for a moment, to forget. To witness the joy that sustained through so much hardship was among the most affecting experiences of my life. But, amidst the outpouring of innocence rest markers of the pain they had been forced to endure – a furtive glance behind, a clenched fist, a flash of concern that dimmed the twinkle in their young eyes.

Our day ended with a helping of Gazan hospitality as we were welcomed to our shelter by warm faces and a taste of local cuisine. Our conversations were pleasant but reflective, revealing that people felt trapped in time as well as space. Suad Lubbad, Anera’s Program Officer, spoke of feeling that time was being stolen as they waited for peace, and hopes for the future were imbued with memories of the past. Sami’s son, a bodybuilder, dreamed of the day he could regain the muscle he was forced to sacrifice. A mother whose children were murdered by the IDF prepared to foster new life, undeterred by the horror that surrounded. In the wake of unspeakable pain, now was the time for rebirth: to rebuild all that had been destroyed and to reclaim all that was taken. Cruelty alone, it was clear, can lay no claim to the human spirit.

As night fell, we were thrust once more into the throes of war, awoken at 1am by bombing that shook our walls and, I’m not embarrassed to say, my nerves. It would last for three hours. My thoughts drifted back to the children we had met only hours earlier. To live in Gaza is to accept you are never truly safe and, because we can’t brace for the worst forever, to grow familiar with death. Every explosion a new interaction. That is a burden even the bravest among us would struggle to lift but one that, here, weighs disproportionately on the shoulders of the most vulnerable.

Morning brought with it a welcome dose of relief, delivered through the smiles and reassuring words of the Anera staff who greeted us. “Oh, you heard the bombing last night?” Suad questioned tenderly. “That is our music.” A beautiful, if tragic sentiment. I was reminded once more of the power of community. Compassion allayed my fear and conjured a vision of life unmarred by war. I didn’t want to leave Suad’s side.

But leave we did, this time for Gaza City, a trip that impressed upon us the sheer scale of physical destruction imposed on Gaza. There is barely a building standing along the Netzarim Corridor, neighborhoods replaced by piles of rubble and dotted with Israeli flags. The eye could travel so far it was difficult, this being my first visit, to imagine what the area resembled in years past. The same fate, I feared, was unfolding across Gaza, if only at a slower pace. But how much can people bear before they cease to resemble themselves? And what to say to the people of Gaza City whose spirits had been so tested?

Our journey to the city of love and war, as its inhabitants affectionately describe it, may have rendered us speechless but Anera’s staff received us with optimism and determination. I had hoped to provide them with the same, the kind of comfort Suad had extended to me, and this reversal of roles left me in awe of their resilience. When I expressed the sentiment, I was reminded to be weary of the word. “We are not resilient, we are simply reacting. The more you say it, the stronger they will attack.” It was a greater relief to be recognized as human than celebrated as heroes. With that, Gaza had served me another commanding lesson in humility.

We passed the afternoon touring Anera’s warehouses and distribution points across Gaza City, all methodically organized and painstakingly maintained, that supplied citizens with food, clothing, hygiene products, and other essentials that were in frustratingly short supply. It was encouraging to see the coordination that had intensified between NGOs, their aims aligned in this time of triage. In a further display of unity, the city blocks that remained standing echoed the same graffitied sentiment – “Promise we will rebuild” – signs that peered beyond pressing purpose and towards a shared dream.

Our final night in Gaza was spent in contemplation of the future. A ceasefire had eluded long enough to moderate expectations and, while resolve remained strong, the war had disrupted life so severely that peace no longer presented a panacea. For most, even under skies unblemished by munitions, there would be no homes to return to, no schools to attend, no jobs left to fill. With so little to sustain them, many considered the difficult decision to leave the land they love. “But who will take us?” Sami admonished with painful stoicism. “The world thinks we are terrorists.”

As we made our way to Kerem Shalom the next morning, forcing Sami punishingly close to freedom, we encountered a young girl, backpack-clad, cycling to an UNRWA school under the guiding hand of her father. Sami greeted her and her passing classmates with the same kind-heartedness that he had extended so readily and reliably during our short stay. As I watched, with eyes trained away from the crumbled structures and the rumblings of conflict drowned by pleasant exchange, life felt blissfully, if ephemerally, ordinary. I willed the feeling to last.

In the days that follow, there will be time enough for justice – to recognize wrongs and administer blame – but the rule of law can reap nothing as rich as a normal day. In Gaza, its citizens prisoners of extremity, the best and worst of humanity is on display. My hope is that peace will foster freedom of a kind they have never known. Not a return through time stolen, but a step forward to a time undefined by heroes and victims, to lives that are truly their own. For now, I am grateful to Anera’s staff, and to the humanitarians and citizens alike, whose days are spent wrestling order from chaos and carving scenes of life unextraordinary from war-torn stone.