It’s never been more dangerous to be a Palestinian aid worker – we feel the world has abandoned us

My first humanitarian job was in 2008, the same year that we experienced the first large-scale hostilities in Gaza. Sixteen years later, the world around us burns again.

In all the escalations between then and now, I was always able to get out and help my people. This time, however, the tightened siege imposed on northern Gaza has confined me to a room in a rented house in Gaza City, where out of my window I can see piles of rubble and a blown-up building that was once someone’s home. The situation was difficult 16 years ago, it is inconceivable now.

So much has happened in the last year, but I still remember joining my colleagues at the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC) online on 8 October to discuss our response to a potential emergency when, a few minutes into the meeting, my neighbourhood in Gaza City was bombed. At midnight, we received warnings from the Israeli military that the area was about to be turned into a military operations zone. We left home for my parents’ that night. Two days later, we were ordered to leave again. My house was bombed not long after, along with so many others in the area.

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The first question was, ‘Why, what have we done?’ Since then, we’ve been displaced 10 more times. We fled on foot and under direct fire. Bullets flying. We only took with us the most essential and lightest things we could carry. We never thought that, for so many months, our only way to connect with the world and hear news would be through a battery-powered radio. It was like being in a cave, isolated from the rest of the world. Explosions were all we could hear. Gunpowder was all we could smell.

As each month passes, life is becoming ever more untenable in northern Gaza. We have been living under a siege imposed by Israel for 17 years, yet this is the first time we have come face-to-face with starvation. Without enough water, many come close to dying from dehydration. Fruits and vegetables are almost non-existent in markets in the north, so people rely on canned food. The prices in the market are astronomical: One kilogram of potatoes now costs around USD 80, and one box of 30 eggs is USD 107.

Parts of our days look borrowed from ancient times. We are left to improvise a form of life. In the morning, we collect firewood for cooking and bathing. Children queue up for long hours, trying to get hold of some water or a hot meal. Women spend most of their time making bread, hand-washing clothes, or preparing a meagre meal.

So many innocent Palestinians have been killed, including my sister, Rola. She had heeded Israel’s relocation orders and fled Gaza City, along with tens of thousands of others, to Deir al-Balah. It was supposed to be safe there, but as it became clear, there is no such thing as safety anywhere in Gaza. Her husband was also killed, and their three children injured. They are now among the thousands of orphans this war has created across Gaza.

What is extraordinary about this endless cycle of bloodshed is that it seems there is no distinction between a civilian, an aid worker or an armed man. It is as if killing has become a habit. Thousands, including children, have been killed in Israeli attacks on refugee camps, schools and overcrowded shelters.

Hundreds of aid workers too have been killed, making Gaza the most dangerous place in the world for humanitarians. Even when aid organisations follow the rules and orders of the Israeli army, they are not safe.

North of Wadi Gaza, where I currently am, we have been recently able to restart activities for the first time since October and are operating in an extremely dangerous and restricted environment. My colleagues in the south, who have been displaced and experienced grave personal loss, insist they won’t be deterred. They are working tirelessly to deliver clean drinking water and provide children with a space to play. Yet, our efforts have been largely crippled by Israel’s restrictions and the breakdown of law and order. Our teams in central Gaza have had to relocate many times, adding to the uncertainty of aid shortages.

The devastation has wrought unimaginable suffering that transcends any class, allegiance or profession. As aid workers prevented from doing our job, we feel an additional burden. It is a duty that we always wanted to assume as Palestinians humanitarians working to improve lives and give some hope.

We can’t help but feel that the world has abandoned us. We have learned not to hold our breath anymore. But we can only hope that the world will still come to its senses and find a way to end this carnage, end Israel’s siege on the people, and allow aid to reach the hungry, ill children anxiously waiting only a few miles away.

Salma Altaweel is the Norwegian Refugee Council’s support manager in Gaza.

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