People in Gaza say they're waiting their turn to be killed – the sense of helplessness is overwhelming

Every time I speak to my parents and some of my siblings in the north of Gaza, their voices tremble with the weight of starvation and famine tightening its merciless grip on them.

They queue for hours to receive a meagre plate of watery stew made from canned beans and peas in tomato sauce. Sometimes, they manage to secure some canned food on their own, sparing them the endless wait for meals, but this only shifts their plight to the water lines. Drinking water is a rare commodity, and water for washing and bathing is an unimaginable luxury, available perhaps once every two weeks if they are fortunate.

• My family faced hell on earth in Gaza. Leaving was their only option for survival
• I lost 200 members of my family to war in Gaza. I feel betrayed by the UK government

A few months ago, my family in the north of Gaza survived on grass for an entire month. When food was finally allowed in for a short period, I felt a fleeting sense of relief that they had endured. But not all of them survived. We lost my nephew Fouad, only three years old, who couldn’t survive on grass alone. He needed medical care that was impossible to obtain due to tanks surrounding the hospital.

Now, we don’t speak of it. It’s not that we’ve forgotten; it’s just that the weight of survival overshadows everything else. Too much has happened since then – tragedy after tragedy that makes losing Fouad seem like just one drop in a sea of pain. We lost my grandmother, Nasra, who was 91 years old, in the most horrific way. An Israeli soldier kicked my uncle out of his own house and, from close range, executed my grandmother with a bullet to her leg and another to her chest.

And then, we lost my uncle Housni. We don’t even know how he died. Eyewitnesses told my cousins they saw people burying their father. They searched and found a makeshift grave, just a mound of sand in the backyard of the hospital, marked with a piece of paper bearing his name among countless others. He had sought refuge in the hospital, but when it was attacked, he lost his life. Some say shrapnel hit him in the head; others say it was a heart attack.

The truth is, we’re consumed by relentless challenges – brutal invasions, displacement, and the constant fight for food and water.

The thought of my family enduring such hardship while I live a life of relative ease in London is an ever-present source of guilt and anguish. Here, I wake up in the morning and take a hot shower, press a button to make my coffee, and go about my day with the certainty of food and safety. This stark contrast gnaws at my conscience. How can I enjoy these simple pleasures knowing my loved ones are suffering so profoundly? The sense of helplessness is overwhelming. I can send money, but it can only do so much when food and clean water are scarce.

When I speak to my family on the phone, they question whether it was the right decision to stay in the north, where food is scarcer. But my sisters, who fled to the south and now live in plastic tents, describe their situation as hell on earth. The torturous heat of Gaza’s summer is unbearable, and the bathroom situation is beyond comprehension, with more than 100 people sharing a single facility. They tell me they wish they had never left the north, where at least they had their homes and could survive on minimal food. Fresh fruits, vegetables and meat have been absent for ten months; they survive on canned food, but at least there is more of it than in the north.

The reality of living in makeshift shelters, with little to no privacy and inadequate sanitation, is dehumanising. My sisters describe their days as an endless struggle against heat, hunger and the constant fear of violence. They speak of sleepless nights, haunted by the sounds of nearby bombings and the cries of children who cannot understand why their world has turned into a nightmare. They try to create a sense of normalcy for their children, but it’s a losing battle when even the most basic necessities are out of reach.

Amidst this, the constant threat of attacks looms. Airstrikes, naval bombardments, and tank shelling are relentless. People in Gaza often say they are just waiting for their turn to be killed, living in what feels like a slaughterhouse. Every day, at least 30 people are killed. Over the past ten months, more than 186,000 people have died, either from Israeli bombardment, starvation, or lack of medical care. The pervasive sense of dread and the ever-present danger have shattered any semblance of normal life. My family, like many others, lives in a state of perpetual fear and uncertainty.

This isn’t just a crisis of survival; it’s a crisis of humanity. The world watches, but action remains insufficient. The international community expresses concern, but words alone cannot stop the bombs, feed the hungry, or provide medical care to the sick and injured. We need more than sympathy; we need decisive action. The situation in Gaza is a clear violation of human rights, a stark and undeniable genocide. The world must recognize this and respond accordingly.

In London, I try to carry on with my life – working, socialising, smiling at people, engaging in small talk – all while my heart is heavy with worry and grief. I wonder if it’s fair to burden others with my trauma, whether it’s their fault for not understanding the depth of my pain. I feel guilty for continuing with my life as normal, for eating, drinking and taking showers. The luxury of waking up and having a shower, touching the wall to turn on the light, pressing a button to get coffee – these are privileges my siblings in Gaza don’t have. We were born and raised in the same house, but their only fault is that they stayed where they were born, their only fault is that they are Palestinian.

This guilt is a heavy burden. I find myself avoiding conversations about Gaza because it’s too painful to explain, and I fear people’s reactions. Will they understand? Will they care? Or will they offer empty platitudes that only deepen my sense of isolation? I grapple with these questions daily. Sometimes, I feel a surge of anger towards those who seem indifferent, but then I remind myself that they haven’t lived this nightmare. How could they possibly understand?

Yet, there are moments of profound connection and empathy. Occasionally, I meet someone who listens with genuine concern, who asks questions and seeks to understand. These moments are precious, offering a glimmer of hope and reminding me that there is still humanity and compassion in the world. They give me the strength to keep speaking out, to keep sharing my family’s story, even when it feels like shouting into a void.

The weight of this situation is not mine alone to bear. It’s a burden shared by all those who believe in justice and human rights. We must raise our voices collectively, demanding an end to the atrocities in Gaza. We must pressure our governments to act, to provide aid and to push for a lasting resolution to this conflict. Silence and inaction are not options; they are complicity.

As I navigate my life in London, I hold onto the hope that change is possible. I draw strength from the resilience of my family in Gaza, who endure unimaginable hardships with courage and dignity. They are the true heroes, and their spirit fuels my resolve to fight for a better future. The road ahead is long and fraught with challenges, but we cannot afford to give up. The lives of too many innocents depend on our action.

In the end, we must remember that every statistic represents a person – a mother, a father, a child, a sibling. Each life lost is a world of potential extinguished, a story abruptly ended. We owe it to them, and to ourselves, to continue this fight for justice. We owe it to Fouad, and to all the children like him, to create a world where no one has to endure such suffering. This is not just a Palestinian struggle; it is a human struggle. And together, we must rise to meet it.

Ahmed Najar is a playwright and director from Gaza now living in London.

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