Ongoing Israeli violations of the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas have left Palestinians in Gaza living with the fear of gunfire that can come without warning. It is ingrained in the details of daily life as gunshots coming from land and sea—from any area in Gaza beyond the Israeli military’s yellow line that demarcates restricted zones for Palestinians—and as bullets that seem random because they reach people without warning.
This gunfire from the Israeli military does not only wound and kill: It leaves people in Gaza with a constant feeling of unease that any ordinary moment, whether it be sitting by the sea, walking to a cafeteria, or talking with a friend, can suddenly turn into a fight for survival as you find yourself under fire without warning.
I speak from firsthand experience. In late May, I went with my friend Saeed to our usual cafeteria in al-Mawasi in southern Gaza to study for my upcoming university exams. We chose a table close to the beach, relieved to have, at least temporarily, escaped the suffocating heat and rats in our tents, which offer no reprieve from harsh summer temperatures.
A few minutes later, we began to hear sounds coming from the direction of the city of Rafah, which is about four miles east and is currently under direct Israeli military control, lying outside the current yellow line. The sound of tank shells echoed loudly nearby—the kind of sound that spreads fear among everyone who hears it. You hear it, but you never know where the shells will fall and whether they will fall on you.
I tried to return to the lecture in front of me, but the sound of tank shells was soon replaced with gunfire coming from Israel’s naval boats in the water by which we sat. At first, we thought the shots were hitting the water or being fired into the air, and that they would not reach the beach. Within moments, the sound of the shots came closer as Israeli officers began targeting and hitting people on the beach and the tents near the shoreline. In the face of a steady stream of bullets, I didn’t know what to do except get down on the ground. The sound of gunfire continued to ring out; people around us were running, hiding, and screaming. I didn’t know whether I should raise my head or stay frozen in place. Then I suddenly heard Saeed groaning in pain, shrieking, “Ah, my shoulder!” I froze, caught between two instincts: Should I stay down, or turn to my friend who had been hit?
After a few minutes, when the sound eased a little, I crawled towards him. A stray bullet had hit his shoulder. I tried to find a car quickly to take him to get medical care, but all we could find was a donkey cart. People nearby helped me carry him onto it as fast as we could—still not knowing whether the gunfire had really stopped or would restart—and rushed to the hospital, where Saeed’s wound was cleaned and treated. Everything moved quickly, in a painfully familiar way characterized by short questions, worried faces, and hands trying to do whatever could be done with what was available. Luckily, the bullet had not reached Saeed’s bone. My friend was in pain, but what stayed in my mind was not only the wound—it was the way an ordinary afternoon sitting by the sea had turned, in seconds, into a scene of bloody violence.
I returned to my family’s tent thinking about how close death had come to us. I tried to connect my phone to the Internet, not to look for anything specific but to distract my mind from the image of Saeed holding his bloody shoulder. Instead, my screen confronted me with news of Palestinians in Gaza killed and wounded in different parts of the Strip: a strike here, gunfire there, another Israeli attack from land, sea, or air. Since the ceasefire came into effect last October, more than 922 Palestinians have been killed and 2,786 others wounded in violations by the Israeli occupation, adding to a wider toll that has reached 72,941 killed and 172,967 wounded since the beginning of the genocide in October 2023. It was clear that te bullet that hit Saeed was not an isolated incident. It was just one part of a whole day across the enclave in which people were living with the same uncertainty as they tried to do ordinary things.
In the camps, a tent does not protect you from a bullet. On the beach, the sea does not protect you from fear. Even the cafeteria, which people try to make into a place of rest, can suddenly become a place where everyone is looking for an escape route. People in Gaza do not live only under the threat of direct death, but under another constant danger created by the occupation: losing trust in any quiet moment.
That night, when I tried to sleep, every sudden sound snapped me back to the beach and to the image of Saeed holding his shoulder. In Gaza, we can call it a ceasefire, but that doesn’t change what we’re living through. A word alone can’t guarantee our safety. Sometimes one bullet is enough to reveal that life is still suspended between an ordinary moment and a moment of near-death experience.