Along the narrow coastline of the Gaza Strip, the roar of the waves mingles with whispered tales heavy with loss. Here, the sea is not merely a geographical space where land meets water; it is the only entity that has refused to submit to the siege, continuing to extend its blue arms to two and a half million people, as if trying to catch their stifled breaths.
This summer, the identity of the beach has been completely transformed; it is no longer a luxury or a typical recreational destination, but rather an extended refuge and a vast psychological outlet, where displaced families fleeing the inferno of scorching tents breathe, searching for a cool breeze despite all the surrounding dangers.
Displacement chases the tides
The scene along the beach is utterly surreal; the coastline stretches out like a canvas blending the beauty of nature with the misery of displacement. The golden sands are teeming with thousands of displaced people who have sought refuge from the stifling heat of their tents.
Sands that, until recently, served as a passage for vacationers are now the sole shelter for dilapidated tent poles that almost touch the Mediterranean Sea. For families who lost their homes in the ongoing war, the sand has become the only remaining "living room."
Colorful fabrics, worn-out umbrellas, and simple plastic chairs are rearranged daily, where entire families sit: women in prayer clothes, children in simple swimsuits, trying to snatch moments of stolen joy.
In Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, Umm Abdullah Baraka, a woman in her forties, sits gazing at the waves breaking near her displacement camp. Her story encapsulates chapters of enduring suffering that have exceeded even the mountains' capacity to bear.
“I am the mother of two martyrs, the wife of a martyr, and the wife of my son and my brother-in-law are also martyrs,” Umm Abdullah told in a calm but broken tone. “I have seven orphans and two widows with me. Our presence here is a way to entertain these orphaned children, to try to make them forget, somewhat, what they went through and are still living through.”
A stolen joy under the watchful eyes of the boats
Just a few meters from Umm Abdullah's tent, children rush towards the water, laughing and jumping with the waves, their little voices ringing out in a desperate attempt to wash away the dust of destruction from their small bodies. Some have their faces adorned with colorful drawings of butterflies and birds.
Yet this joy seems stolen, subject to decisions beyond their control. Their parents' eyes are constantly fixed on the horizon, fearful of the Israeli warships that lurk, threatening their precious summer. Out at sea, the Mediterranean waves appear calm, but behind their blue depths lies the specter of warships that never leave the horizon, while their parents' gazes are filled with bewilderment and anxiety, fearing the treachery of shells.
Sameh Abu Samra, a father of four displaced children in the central Gaza Strip, contemplates this complex scene and says, "For the people of Gaza, the sea is currently the only escape. Although it is unsafe and dangerous because of the warships in the open sea, there is no other option." “These people come here to unburden themselves
of their worries and dispel their distress on this beach. We have no other choice,” he adds, speaking as he watches his young children. “The children you see playing come to relax and escape the pressures of life. They are children who have witnessed wars, death, and destruction, and we bring them to the sea to change their atmosphere and their spirits.”
Among these children stands young Youssef Al-Haddad, a displaced child from Gaza City, his eyes shining with a simple desire for life. He says, “I came here to swim, to relax, and to live in peace like other children around the world, far from the atmosphere of war, destruction, and killing.”
The tragedy of the beach is manifested in a stark environmental and health paradox. The sea itself, which offers displaced people a chance to escape the stifling heat of their tents, has been transformed, due to the collapse of infrastructure and the absence of sewage systems, into an alternative source of threat. Displaced people are forced to use seawater to wash their dishes and clothes, and even to bathe and relieve themselves, due to water shortages and the destruction of sewage systems. This has transformed what was once a beautiful haven into a breeding ground for skin diseases.
Garbage and waste litter the water's edges, bearing witness to the collapse of infrastructure and the absence ofsanitation. This turns the water, once a source of recreation, into a potential source of epidemics, yet it remains the only option for a people determined to cling to life as best they can.
Umm Abdullah describes this bitter reality, saying, "The sea serves us in several ways today; it's a place for children to relax, despite the lack of safety, and it's a place of refuge teeming with people. But unfortunately, it has become a polluted and dangerous place for children because of skin diseases, since people are forced to relieve themselves in the water and dispose of waste there, due to the lack of sanitation or even the most basic necessities for a healthy life. Despite all this, we have no other escape but the sea."
Psychotherapy with "zero" capabilities
In the absence of psychological clinics and recreational centers, the sea has become a silent therapist, and the child's cry against the waves represents a desperate attempt to drown out the sound of shelling in their memory. The sea becomes a "clothesline" for the worries of orphaned children.
On the sands of the Mawasi area of Khan Younis, Ahmed Al-Ashi stands, his voice a mixture of anger and hope, expressing the sentiments of thousands of displaced people. He says, "We are a people who love life, but we are a people oppressed since birth. Killing, wars, and destruction... how long will this continue? Children are being killed, and homes are being demolished over the heads of their inhabitants in a continuous war of extermination. Our message to the entire world is: stop this diabolical farce."
he continues resolutely, "We want our children to live in peace, to escape, even just once, the bitter atmosphere of war. Enough of your inaction! We want to live like the rest of humanity. Our children haven't experienced the joy of any holiday or Ramadan, and we await God's relief and the victory of the oppressed."
This struggle for survival is shared by Khitam al-Madhoun, the wife of a martyr and a displaced woman in the central Gaza Strip, who came to the beach with her children.
Khitam says, “I am the wife of a martyr. Despite the hunger, fear, and loss, and despite the indescribable pain, I came to bring some joy to my children who have lived through the agony of their father’s martyrdom. We are here on the beach, but we don’t feel safe; at any moment a missile could fall on us and we could be killed. But how long will we remain like this? More than two years have passed since the war, and the children keep begging me to go out and live.”
She concludes her interview with looking at her children: “I came with them, unsure if we will ever return safely to our tents and homes. We are demanding our most basic rights: to live in safety, to eat and drink like the rest of the world.”
As the sun sets, the Gaza beach takes on a warm orange hue, casting its shadows over the camp that stretches across the sand.
The whole story is encapsulated in a symbolic image reflecting the struggle between the "will to live," embodied by a child painting a butterfly on her face and smiling despite the pain, and the "harshness of reality," represented by a black flag raised on the beach, a warning sign or perhaps a silent mourning, or a warship slowly passing on the horizon.
Everything was closed off to Gaza this summer: roofs, crossings, roads. All that remained for the city was this open blue horizon, which became its only "breathing space" in a city surrounded by the rest of the world, leaving it with nothing but the skyline.
