Elizabeth O'Shaughnessy 🇵🇸

Write about what is happening in Gaza right now. This has literally gone beyond reason and crossed every boundary of humanity and human decency. A transport vehicle carrying a very large number of people was just targeted. The scene is beyond words; some of the people inside the vehicle literally disappeared in the force of the explosion, while others were thrown through the air over long distances. People in the tents surrounding the vehicle were also injured. There were children, women, and elderly people among those at the scene. Civilians who were simply on their way suddenly found themselves in the middle of an explosion that destroyed everything around them. Where is the world? Where is the so-called Peace Council? Where is all the talk about humanity and protecting civilians? Write about this. Speak about it. Show the world what is happening in Gaza right now. Do not let these scenes pass in silence.

I don’t know if the world still cares about what I have to say, but I want to speak about one of the harshest realities we in Gaza are living through today: the struggle to leave. Thousands of patients, wounded people, students, and others with urgent humanitarian needs are waiting for a chance to leave, while only about 20 people are allowed to leave through the Rafah crossing in each group. Imagine the humiliation of waiting while your life depends on being allowed to travel. Thousands urgently need medical treatment, including cancer patients, kidney patients, and people with severe injuries, yet they remain trapped because the care they need is unavailable in Gaza. With every passing day, more patients’ conditions worsen, and some lose their lives before they ever get the chance to receive treatment. One of my friends has been seriously injured for nearly three months and is still waiting for permission to leave for medical care. Every day that passes increases the risk that he will lose his leg or even his life. Patients are not the only ones paying the price. Students who earned scholarships abroad have been prevented from continuing their education because they cannot leave Gaza. Years of hard work have come to a halt at a closed crossing. We are living inside a prison. Even when your only chance of survival is outside Gaza, you cannot reach it. You cannot save yourself or your family. How much humiliation must a person endure just to be given the chance to try to survive?

I am writing these words to you from inside Gaza City, and I say this with complete honesty: the situation has become extremely dangerous, perhaps worse than ever before. Temperatures continue to rise, and the tents have turned into real ovens. More than 170,000 tents across Gaza City are sheltering thousands of families in conditions that are impossible to describe. Inside these tents, temperatures exceed 50°C (122°F). There is no electricity, no fans, no air conditioning, and none of the basic necessities needed to survive. The tents are packed tightly together, with almost no space between them. Many families are forced to leave their tents and sit in the streets because remaining inside has become unbearable. Water is desperately scarce, and the extreme heat is making thirst even more severe. And this is only the beginning of summer. Every day, I see the effects of the intense heat on children’s bodies heat rashes, exhaustion, and suffering while insects emerging from the ground make life even harder. The coming days could be even more devastating if these conditions continue. The tents are no longer places of shelter; they have become another source of danger. Please don’t let these families be forgotten. Speak about them. Write about them. Share their stories with others. Keep their voices alive and let the world know what is happening. Behind every tent is a family struggling to survive. They need to be seen, they need to be heard, and they need your solidarity.

There is something heartbreaking that I notice every day while distributing water to different camps across Gaza. Each time, I expect to see men gathering to fill water containers, but the reality is completely different. Most of the people standing in line are children, women, and the elderly. Young children, some no older than ten years old, struggle to carry heavy water jugs that seem far too large for their small bodies. Women walk long distances under the scorching sun, carrying burdens that are difficult even for many adults. And the elderly stand alone, exhausted and worn out, waiting patiently for their turn. Today, I asked one of the camp leaders about the reason behind what I keep seeing every day. His answer was enough to break my heart. He told me, “Many of these children have lost their fathers in the war, and there is no one left to carry these burdens for them. These women are widows whose husbands were killed, so they are now forced to take on every responsibility alone. As for the elderly, many have lost their sons or been separated from their families, leaving them with no choice but to rely on themselves.” Since that conversation, I have looked at these faces differently. I no longer see people simply collecting water I see stories of loss, grief, and resilience. I see a child whose childhood was stolen far too soon, a woman carrying the weight of an entire family on her shoulders, and an elderly person struggling against both age and sorrow. Sometimes it feels as though what we are enduring here is beyond what any human being should have to bear. Years of loss, deprivation, and fear, yet people continue to fight for survival day after day. But one question never leaves my mind: How much longer will our children be forced to carry burdens heavier than their own childhoods? And how much longer will this harsh reality be the only life people here know?

Honestly, I don’t know how to describe what I lived through today. Even though I have been living in Gaza and documenting what is happening since the beginning of the war, what I witnessed today was one of the most shocking and painful scenes of my entire life. A group of families living in a very remote camp, almost directly beside the Israeli sand berms, contacted us. They told us they had not received water for a long time. At first, we hesitated because reaching the area with a water truck meant entering an extremely dangerous zone. In the end, we decided to try. Throughout the journey, I saw destruction and rubble everywhere, but the scene that awaited us near the camp was unlike anything else. Directly in front of us were the sand berms and Israeli cranes, surrounded by a landscape of devastation where little remained except tents and ruins. When the water truck was still about a kilometer away, people began shouting and running toward it. Women, children, and elderly people carried empty water containers and ran with all the strength they had, terrified that the water would run out before their turn came. The moment the truck stopped, large numbers of people emerged from among the rubble and damaged tents. They were not looking for food, shelter, or anything else. They were looking for water. Just water. This time we distributed 6,000 liters of clean water, more than we had distributed before, but even that was not enough. Many people remained waiting, and some left without receiving enough water for their families. As we distributed the water and documented what was happening, fear never left us for a single moment. Yet what I felt in the face of such immense suffering was greater than fear itself. Today I witnessed a level of thirst I never imagined I would see. I saw mothers running after a water truck, and children clutching empty containers as if they were holding on to their last hope. I thought I had already seen everything during this war, but what I witnessed today made me realize that the humanitarian catastrophe is far greater than what the world sees on television screens. This is not simply a shortage of services or difficult living conditions. It is a daily struggle for the most basic necessities of survival. We are facing a real humanitarian disaster that grows worse with each passing day, while thousands of families wake up every morning searching for one thing only: water.