In Gaza, it’s not just the prison cells that trap people. The daily restrictions on movement, services, communication, and basic life make every moment of our lives feel like a collective prison without walls, where even the simplest decisions are subject to constant limitations, turning life into a continuous struggle for survival.

Since I woke up today, I felt the familiar sensation: that the whole place is a cell. It’s not just the tent I live in with my family, nor the destruction next to our tent — every inch of Gaza feels like part of a vast prison without walls. Every step I take, every movement I make, is constrained by the Israeli occupation’s policies, controlling my daily life from the smallest details to the biggest decisions.

Ever since I was forced to leave my city, Rafah, and to live in a camp, even the simplest daily routines have become a challenge. The tents are crowded, privacy is almost nonexistent, and freedom is just a word we pass around in stories. Sometimes I look at the sky and imagine that every ray of sunlight is watching us, deciding when we can go out, when we must return, and when we can connect with others. Even sleeping in the tent feels restricted; every sound from outside reminds you that someone is watching at every moment, and that you are living inside a tent.

Every day, I wake up to the sound of the reconnaissance plane before I even open my eyes. Its sharp tone fills the sky as if announcing the start of a new day of constant monitoring. It never leaves us; it hangs over us every moment, like a guard who never sleeps, tracking the smallest details of our day and reminding us that we are not free, even in the simplest moments.

My younger brother Mohammed, just 13 years old, has experienced hardships far beyond his age. Since the moment we started living in the camp, he has had to carry water canisters more than 200 meters back and forth every day.

“Every day I walk long distances — not to go to school, and I’m not carrying my school bag — but I carry water canisters,” he says. “I return to the tent and start all over again. I feel like a miner in a movie, but this isn’t a movie — this is our daily life.”

During my volunteer visit in one of the largest displacement camps in southern Gaza during Ramadan, I met people, each carrying a story that proved one thing: Gaza is a prison without walls. Through these testimonies, I felt the extent of the daily restrictions each person lives under, and how every moment of their life becomes a constant challenge.

On that day, I met Hamouda Al-Harazin, a student who had received a scholarship to study engineering in Turkey. Since finishing high school — after more than two years of interrupted education due to the genocide — his dream had been to study abroad in engineering and live a normal life, away from war and restrictions. I sat with him in a small corner of the camp and asked how he felt.

“I had been dreaming of the day I would receive this scholarship. When I was accepted to study in Turkey in August 2025, the crossing was never opened. Even after the end of the destruction, and more than 150 days after the ceasefire was announced, they finally opened the crossing briefly in February 2026,” he told me. “I felt my dream was about to come true … but after a few days, the road was closed again. My feeling of joy turned into disappointment. Every step toward freedom here depends on the will of others far away; we have no control over it.”

Al-Harazin described how travel meant traversing a map full of red lines — not just for him, but for other students and patients — where every movement required careful planning and every decision could be reversed at any moment. For him, Gaza is not just a home or a street; it is a prison that controls every movement and every dream.

Then I met Amal Shaban, a young woman who has been engaged for two years and has some family members living outside Gaza. She dreams of the day she can be reunited with her family and see her fiancé, who is in Belgium, at any moment, or at least communicate with him freely. She told me about her daily life. “I can’t leave the camp, and I can’t travel to see my fiancé,” she said. “Even video calls with my family are limited — only at certain times depending on electricity or internet availability. I feel that my life is restricted.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m living as a prisoner,” Shaban added, “not just confined within the camp, but in every step I take and every decision I make. Even the moments that should be simple, like talking to my family, are subject to daily struggles.”

For Youssef Abu Zakkar, a 26-year-old man, “Al-Mawasi here is like a prison within a larger prison. Every movement is limited, and every step you take must navigate the roads, the rubble, the stagnant water, and the pollution everywhere.”

“Even if I want to visit a friend or buy something, I have to check whether the sandy path is walkable in winter, whether I can find any transportation, and when it might be closed,” he added. “It’s as if we live according to a schedule imposed by the occupation on every aspect of our lives.”

In the camps, everything reminds you of a prison. The streets are filled with rubble, cars are scarce, and houses are destroyed. Even buying new clothes has become a challenge: Black is the most practical color for tents and sandy conditions, while lighter colors are almost an impossible luxury, as if we are all in a cell wearing the same clothes.

I sat with Alaa Jabar, a woman in the camp. “My son bought a shirt in a different color, but I had to return it and buy a black one because it couldn’t be washed easily,” she told me. “Everything here is limited — even the freedom to choose something as simple as a shirt.”

Cleanliness is also a daily challenge: The lack of washing machines, limited water, and complete electricity outages make doing laundry and taking care of personal cleanliness a constant struggle.

In Gaza, electricity is cut off, solar panels are the main source of power, and internet access is limited. Even communicating with others depends on precise timing.

“Sometimes I feel like everything depends on the weather. Contacting family, getting information — everything requires strict timing,” said Jabar.

We don’t need walls or guards in Gaza today. Here — with all its tents, ruined streets, black clothing, and daily restrictions — Gaza resembles a prison without walls. From the student who cannot travel, to the fiancée who cannot see her family or meet her love, to the person carrying water over long distances — each of us lives under constant limitations with every step we take, while empty slogans and the so-called ceasefires hover above us.

Yet resilience and the ability to adapt remain part of our daily lives — finding small moments of joy amid the restrictions, proving that we can endure and resist even the harshest conditions, because we are the people of this land.

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