Part of the Series
Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation
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When the long-awaited Gaza ceasefire was announced back in January 2025, displaced people counted down the minutes until they were allowed to return to their homes — or what remained of their homes. They had spent nights on streets where frost chilled their bones, enduring an undignified life while waiting for January 27 to dawn. Then they marched, walking for long miles without bending their backs or even looking behind.
Even though Al-Rashid Street, the path they had to take, was challenging, their joy at going home outweighed any exhaustion they felt. People I spoke to said that the journey from the south of Gaza back to their homes in the north, which should have taken hours, felt like minutes, as they finally embraced their city again — leaving behind the humiliation, homelessness, fear, and anger they had endured away from home.
Hani Abu Rezeq, a Palestinian journalist who had been displaced to the south from Gaza City back in October 2023, described this march of return to me, saying: “If you asked me what’s the best day of your life, I would undoubtedly answer the day I returned to the ruins of my home. It was an epic scene, one that sends shivers down to the bones from joy.”
That same street that once echoed with sounds of jubilance and hope for a new beginning — where peace, just peace, might finally take root — is now witnessing another march once more. Palestinians from Gaza City and the northern parts of the Strip are now dragging their bodies and belongings in the opposite direction, terrified as Israel’s forces have intensified the machinery of genocide, using it as a bargaining chip to push them out of Gaza. Their hope, once held tightly despite the odds, was pulverized with the collapse of the last remaining landmarks: 50 high-rise residential buildings. The very streets that once embraced them in joy now tremble beneath their feet, threatening to crumble, holding them still — but this time they walk not with pride, but with terror and homelessness.
As Israeli forces clearly and brazenly declared their intention to expand the military operation by taking full control of Gaza City — even after already seizing nearly 75 percent of the Strip and cramming its people into tightly packed camps vulnerable to attack — they ordered 900,000 Palestinians in Gaza City and the northern areas to flee south. With every possible means of resilience tightened, civilians are trapped between two unwinnable choices: to stay and face inevitable death, or to flee and brace for grim consequences.
People had never expected this scenario to recur, not even in their wildest dreams. Yet this time the Israeli attacks are unfolding more cruelly than ever. New types of military equipment such as explosive-laden remote-controlled robots are being tested on people there. Explosive rockets alone could flatten an entire neighborhood, coupled with artillery shelling and indiscriminate airstrikes. These are all accompanied by recorded threats played by the quadcopter, which issues warnings such as “Hell’s gates will open on you if you don’t flee south.”
People strive most to resist this systemic campaign to expel them southward and to prevent a new version of Nakba, where the right of return remains only a far-off dream. Many are concerned for the safety of their loved ones, so they are forced to protect them with the bare minimum.
Another humanitarian crisis has emerged: the soaring displacement expenses — or, as many people in Gaza bitterly describe it, “The fees you pay to become homeless in the south.”
And now, through all of this, another humanitarian crisis has emerged: the soaring displacement expenses — or, as many people in Gaza bitterly describe it, “The fees you pay to become homeless in the south.” Economic inflation, caused first by the occupation and then worsened by the greed of certain traders, knows no limits in exploiting exhausted people. It has even extended to displacement, where families are emotionally and financially drained, and physically wasting away.
According to the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA), the average cost of displacement to the south is about $3,000, though it fluctuates daily, reaching nearly $5,000 recently, according to my own observations and the testimonies of the people around me. Some are forced to accept this reality and pay for trucks, while others have sacrificed their most precious belongings. I personally know a mother who sold her marriage gold just to cover the fee for a donkey cart because her children could not manage the long walk. Meanwhile, most have had no choice but to abandon their belongings, gather their families, and walk south on foot.
Having listened to the stories of humanitarian workers who aided families on the journey from north to south, and having heard the testimonies of many who made the journey, I have a stark image of the suffering it entailed: Pregnant women collapsed along the way. Elders trudged as they fought exhaustion, while the injured — many with implanted screws and metal pins in their limbs — were forced to endure walking despite the risks of complications. What in normal circumstances would never be attempted has now been brutally tested. In Gaza, even the most basic health care precautions are broken, leaving patients to do the medically forbidden simply to survive.
While many left, some remained steadfast— not always out of resilience, but because they could not afford the steep costs of fleeing. For them, death was closer and, heartbreakingly, more affordable than survival. Om Nasr, a mother of two, was one of them. She was among the roughly 400,000 who stayed in the city during the first displacement in 2023. I first interviewed her in May 2025, when there were positive developments in the ceasefire talks, and she shared her perspective.
She told me then, despite being in one of the red zones in Jabalia refugee camp, “This is still my home. I have nowhere else to run, and my children cannot bear the humiliation of displacement, so I will stay here — in my home, my kingdom, my comfort.” Her voice carried a flicker of hope; she ended every sentence with, “This hell is going to end soon.”
I called Om Nasr days ago. In a desperate voice she replied, “I lost my home and escaped relentless airstrikes. I’m sheltering now at Gaza’s port — in a tent my husband and I made with our tethered blanket.” She continued, “Just thinking about what I’ve settled for makes me insane. What will I do when winter approaches? How can I save my children? I can’t even buy a good tent.” In a cracking voice she said, “I was living a modest, comfortable life — now I live the life I once feared in my nightmares: stranded, homeless, sick, and terrified.”
“I don’t know what wrong we’ve committed to deserve an ending no heart could endure,” she added.
When I asked why she had not fled south, she admitted, embarrassed:
The displacement fees are far beyond my capacity. I have less than a quarter of the amount. I know nothing of the south; at least I’m familiar here with the ruins of my city. But I’m afraid for my children. I feel guilty that I cannot give them even the bare minimum they need to survive — fleeing to the south. I won’t forgive myself if any harm befalls them.
Mahmoud Saeed, a writer known in Gaza for his candid perspectives, wrote on Facebook:
I swear, I am not resilient in the north. I am deeply afraid for myself and my family. But I cannot flee. I have no money. I have no tent. I cannot find a piece of land to pitch anything on. We are not resilient. We are devastated in every way.
The next day, Saeed and his family were killed by Israel.
Huda Skaik, a Palestinian writer and English literature student, told Truthout: “We don’t even allow ourselves to think about displacement to the south after the grotesque experience imprinted on our souls there. We’re holding on to Gaza City until the very last breaths, so either we die or survive miraculously.”
Skaik continued:
These days remind me of the first days of genocide, yet now it’s fiercer. I couldn’t stop overthinking: Will they embark on their ground operation while we are sleeping and explode buildings with their inhabitants, or will they expel us to the south again, or might they stop the operation at all? These questions keep crossing my mind until I realize that we’re trapped in a nightmare, with no way out.
Parched and desperate, people reached the southern part of Gaza, complying with Israeli orders that claimed the south was a safe zone. But what does “south” even mean? Rafah and Khan Younis, which were already flattened into barren wastelands? Or the middle area, corralled by bombs and already suffocating with overcrowding? The so-called safe zone is nothing but a flimsy lie. In Gaza, safety does not exist at all.
For example, members of the Abu Harbid family, expelled from Beit Hanoun and forced to flee to the western part of Deir al-Balah, were all killed by airstrikes just days after their displacement.
With no destination, people grew desperate for accommodation. Yet many traders made survival nearly impossible. Housing rents, which used to cover only a fraction of what the current prices demand, are crushing the already poor. According to people I have spoken with personally, a 180-square-meter home now costs around $5,000. There are no clear guidelines — many traders are grifting in every possible way.
A tent was hardly a better option. It costs about $1,000, while simply securing a patch of land for pitching a tent ranges between $700 and $800, and building a makeshift bathroom costs $500. This skyrocketing crisis does nothing but compound the suffering of a place where poverty affects over 90 percent of the population and unemployment reaches 83 percent, leaving many to wish for death as the only escape.
“Gaza is now among the most expensive places in the world — for food supplies, housing rents, and even tents.”
This time, Abu Rezeq chose to remain in the north. “I experienced displacement to the south last year. I will never agree to repeat it again. It was a gruesome, dire period where humiliation, death, and exhaustion were deeply rooted,” he said. “Living in tents, cut off from your family, friends, and home, and struggling for every aspect of life is unbearable. Yet death is death, whether you are in the south or the north. There are no safe zones, despite what Israeli forces claim.”
He paused, then continued:
Gaza is now among the most expensive places in the world — for food supplies, housing rents, and even tents. The humanitarian crisis has deepened not only because of Israel’s violent, intense bombardment, but also because of the crippling, soaring expenses. Many who stayed in the north did not remain because they are heroes or invincible legends; it is simply because they cannot afford the grueling costs of displacement. For them, dying in the north feels less cruel than becoming homeless in the southern streets.
The massive waves of displacement affect not only those forced to leave, but also those left behind, Abu Rezeq said, adding:
We are two years into the Israeli genocide machinery, with no end in sight. Northern Gaza is being drastically isolated — our internet connection is deliberately cut, and people face insurmountable difficulties just to fetch water or charge a phone. Transportation is nearly gone; the few remaining vehicles are obstructed or deterred. So here in north Gaza, we are forced to walk long miles on foot.
However, many noble Palestinians in Gaza opened their homes and lands to the displaced, freely and without charge. My father was among them. He opened his 500-meter plot in Al-Bureij refugee camp for families to pitch their tents, asking nothing in return. When I asked him about the contrast between his attitude and that of others, he said:
We know, deep down, how forcible displacement wounds people, how it impacts them, how it feels to flee from death adrift. We feel their suffering and the magnitude of their unspeakable pain. What we do is sincerely our duty — not out of favor.
My colleague Mays Shehda Alaloul told me that her experience has been etched with fear, loss, and uncertainty. “Every time I jolt awake due to the fire belts, explosive robots, or the menacing sound of helicopters — I keep asking myself why I must be resilient when this could be my death sentence. How can I be resilient in a city of nothing but death?”
She continued:
Many believe individual efforts cannot liberate Palestine or end the violence; their efforts won’t keep the land. Many cannot justify staying as resilience but as an inevitable death. Yet things cannot be this way. If people had surrendered at the last displacement, there would be no North Gaza now. The steadfastness of the minority has remained a thorn in Israel’s throat, frustrating every attempt at ethnic cleansing.
In a broken voice, Alaloul said: “I have paid the cost of every decision I insisted on — staying on my land. In the first months of the genocide, we were besieged in Jabalia refugee camp, and the Israelis stormed our home while we were still inside. Yet we survived by a miracle.”
She sobbed and continued:
In May 2024, when the ground invasion of Jabalia began, we were corralled once again. Our daily survival was reduced to a morsel of bread and a cup of water. We were forced to act as if no one was home, yet our pounding hearts and shallow breaths betrayed us — until loudspeakers ordered us to come out. I was the first to open the door, only to be stunned by the barrels of their guns pointed directly at me. I pleaded with them, telling them there were children, women, and my 70-year-old father inside. Still, they took us as hostages and used my 15-year-old brother as a human shield. But somehow, we all made it through.
She sighed again, her voice cracking:
In the third invasion of Jabalia in October 2024, I endured 85 days of relentless bombardment and fear before the chorus of world’s silence. We were 30 family members — mostly children and women — crouched in a corner, waiting for dawn to flee. But what happened was unexpected. At sunrise we pulled ourselves together, held up a white sheet, and fled toward Gaza City.
I asked her what made the difference this time. What forced her to leave Gaza City to the south? She explained:
I cannot bear to lose more. My father’s health has deteriorated severely, especially after my sister was killed in May 2025. He lost his ability to walk, and his sight is now only partial. Despite his determination to never leave the land, his fear for us finally drove him to make this decision. It was like ripping the soul out of a body. I did not accept it easily. I reduced my life, my ambitions, and my memories into one small bag. That bag carried me away, parted from the graves of my mother, my sister Mu’atah and her children, and from the body of my sister Noha — whose whereabouts I still do not know.
Alaloul concluded:
The experience of displacement is beyond tough. Nobody would ever want to repeat this nightmare. Gazans have lost their ability to fight back against what is imposed on them; they simply drift as the current drifts. Yet, on the other hand, many are forced into a kind of resilience — not by strength, but by the crushing weight of this crisis.
Abu Rezeq gave me a brief overview, explaining:
Most of the people who fled this time were the ones who had stayed resilient back in 2023, when they were starved, besieged, and killed. They now think that life in the south is comparatively safer. Meanwhile, those clinging to the land this time, more than ever, are the ones who were displaced in 2023 and deeply scarred by the undignified living conditions in the south.
Each time we say it can’t become worse, it does. The endless tragedy in Gaza invades every aspect of life, narrowing the space between death and survival with each passing day.
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