Displaced lives: The struggle for survival in Gaza

More than 90 percent of Palestinians in Gaza have been displaced over the last year and a half of relentless bombardment and siege. Many have tried to return to their homes only to find them in ruins, and whole neighborhoods obliterated and unrecognizable.

With nearly 70 percent of all structures damaged or destroyed—and 92 percent of all housing units—people are forced to live in makeshift camps and overcrowded shelters, where access to basic necessities like food, water, and health care remains extremely limited.

Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) is highlighting the plight of displaced families in Gaza with “Displaced Lives,” a mini-documentary series filmed in March 2025, at the start of Israeli forces’ total siege of Gaza. It follows the daily lives of three generations of women from the same family as they try to survive displacement, siege, and ongoing violence. These are their stories.

Displaced Lives

Follow three generations of women from the same family in their daily struggle to survive in Gaza.

Watch on YouTube

Hanan

“The whole world is watching”

We are not safe, because every day I wake up to the sound of gunfire nearby. I hear the ships and the tanks firing every day, morning and night. The jets never leave the sky. Even if there is a ceasefire. I don’t feel safe, because they [Israeli forces] are close to us.

It’s been nearly a year and a half of living like this: gathering wood, water, and such things. It’s exhausting, especially the smoke from the fire. I’ll show you what the smoke does to my hands.

Every day, every single day, everything I do now depends on firewood. We used to wash dishes in a sink. We used to cook on a stove. Now we cook over a fire, wash dishes in basins, bathe in barrels. That’s the life we’re living now, and it isn’t right. And the whole world is watching.

This is the life of a Palestinian. In the shadow of the occupation, in the shadow of a world that does not stand with us.

Down came the rocket and I knew it was my daughter. She didn’t make it. I ran over the rubble, through the fire. I didn’t care if another rocket was coming. Because I knew it was her.

We are alive, but we’re not really living. Or maybe it’s truer to say we’re dead, but the heartbeat remains.

The day my daughter was killed, my life shut down. Even when my phone rings, I don’t want to answer. I can’t bear to talk, even for a minute. I have no will to speak to anyone, I just want to sit with my daughter’s belongings and her memories.

Over an open flame, Hanan prepares the bread her family relies on in Gaza.

"We are alive, but we’re not really living. Or maybe it’s truer to say we’re dead, but the heartbeat remains."

— Hanan

Sahar

“The source of strength that keeps me going is my children”

When the war started, we were displaced from one place to another, until we ended up here in this tent. We were displaced many times—maybe 10 or 11 times. We kept moving.

The last few months have been the hardest. They were extremely difficult, especially when we were in Sheikh Radwan [Hospital], where we didn’t know anyone.

The first time we were in the tent, we were all sleeping when we suddenly felt water beneath us. We jumped up, and by the time we got up and tried to move our things, it had turned into a swimming pool.

We struggle with water and life in the tent especially during the winter. We had no clothes. It was hard for my youngest son. I had to dress him with the same clothes, I would undress him, wash and hang the clothes up, hoping they’d dry. Those were the hardest months of our lives.

My house was brand new, I had only lived in it for seven months. It was a proper home. We didn’t build it in a few months, we worked on it for years. It took 10 years to complete.

The source of strength that keeps me going is my children. They’re the ones who keep me alive. Everything I do, it’s all for them.

In the future, I just wish for my children to live a better life than the one they have now. I don’t wish for anything more than that.

"My house was brand new, I had only lived in it for seven months ... We didn’t build it in a few months, we worked on it for years. It took 10 years to complete."

— Sahar

Deema

"When I grow up, I want to be a doctor like my mom”

I was in the bathroom and then we were bombed.

I was so scared, especially when we were bombed at night. I couldn’t stop crying. I used to live in our home, in Al-Muaskar, Jabalia [North Gaza]. Now, I live in a tent in the street.

The thing that tires me the most is fetching water. The bottles are so heavy, and the line is always long. It’s really hot, it’s hard to get it, and they don’t want to fill water for us and when someone gets the hose, they fill [their bottle]. It’s like when I was in school, the girls used to bully me. They called me “Black and White.”

I get really sad. I wish I could be like the other girls without vitiligo. Every day, after I finish my chores—picking mallow, collecting plastic, doing the dishes, and tidying up—I sit and play. I play make-believe games with my friends. I just wish I could return to my room and for my vitiligo to go away. When I grow up, I want to be a doctor, like my mom.