The voices of Gaza who cannot sign this article

Since October 2023, at least 540 humanitarian professionals have been killed in Gaza, most of them Palestinians serving their own communities. The stories you will read are not just testimony – they are the lives of our colleagues, marked by survival and defiance in the face of unspeakable tragedy. Despite hunger, exhaustion, distress, and displacement – some forced to flee 26 times in less than 2 years – humanitarian professionals continue to work every single day to support their community and fulfil their humanitarian mandate.

This text is a compendium of their testimonies, which were originally shared in audio format. It is also an act of resistance: revealing what is happening when everything and everyone around them seems to want their silence.

Every morning starts the same. I wake up to the sound of drones, explosions and an empty stomach. The first thing I do is look for flour. If I’m lucky, I find some, but at an exorbitant price. But even if I manage to buy it, what do I cook it with? There is no gas. There is no electricity. There is no clean water. There is nothing.

I have been displaced three times. I have moved from place to place throughout Gaza, trying to find safety. But here, safety is an illusion. Every day is a struggle to find shelter, food and to stay alive.

If I manage to find a place to stay, it can cost more than $1,500 a month. To pay for that, I need cash, but there are no banks. Withdrawing money means losing more than 40% in fees. And even if I have money, what can I buy? We are living in a famine. If I survive the bombings today, I will sleep hungry, afraid, not knowing what tomorrow will bring. And to be honest, I don’t know if I will be able to finish recording this testimony, because bombs and death surround us constantly. Yes. This is life here in Gaza.

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Fear and insecurity are constant. Every time a displacement order is issued, I am overcome with anxiety. I don’t know what to do or where to go. The uncertainty is paralysing. It is present every moment of the day. We live with the feeling that any decision could be our last.

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To get drinking water, we have to wait for hours. Sometimes days. We depend on water trucks that arrive when they can. The mental burden we bear is very, very heavy. However, we remain committed to our mission. Because we are also part of this affected community. Because hope, however fragile, is a form of existence.

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Even the most mundane things have changed. There are seven of us at home, and my cup of tea only has half a teaspoon of sugar. I only get a small piece of bread for the whole day: half in the morning, half when I finish work. That’s my ration.

When I leave home to go to work, I still have a fifteen-minute walk to the nearest point where I might find transport. If I’m lucky, there will be a car. If not, I’ll have to get on a tuk-tuk, a donkey cart, or any other makeshift vehicle. All of them are very uncomfortable and time-consuming options. Whatever it is, it costs me five times more than before the war.

The team’s energy deteriorates as the day goes on. So does mine. We feel dizzy and weak. Like the rest of the population, we don’t get enough calories a day. But as humanitarian workers, we don’t have the luxury of collapsing. We have to keep going. Not for ourselves, but for our people. Because if we stop helping, who will?

There is no rest. There is no respite. But we keep pushing, because there is no other option. Because the aid we provide is the only thing standing between despair and hope. And even though every day is more difficult, we carry on. Because we simply cannot stop.