After more than two and a half years of war and seven months into a so-called ceasefire, the meaning of money has changed for Palestinians in Gaza. Financial stability is no longer just about having money; it’s about being able to access and use your money. We have to navigate mounting fees to use digital bank accounts, which we can only access if we have any Internet connection in the first place. When physical cash is available, it can’t be too worn out, or it will be rejected. And small change, which has become exceedingly rare in Gaza, is essential for even the simplest transactions.
In this reality, money is no longer a means of survival, but rather an additional obstacle. Before the war, accessing cash and electric funds was a simple process, something you used to get what you needed. Today, it has become another form of uncertainty. You may have it, but you cannot be sure you will be able to use it.
This became abundantly clear to me in April, when I tried to get medicine for my mother. She suffers from severe migraines, which are worsened by life in tents and the constant sound of Israeli drones and bombs, even after the so-called ceasefire. A friend had reached out to let me know that a migraine medication that had been unavailable for months was finally available at a pharmacy in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza. Without prompting, he offered to give me some cash to pay for it.
Before the war, accessing your money was something ordinary, an invisible daily task. At that time there were fifty-six bank branches and ninety-one ATMs throughout the enclave, nearly all of which have since been destroyed by Israeli bombing. In 2025, the World Bank reported that only two semi-functional ATMs remain in Gaza. In the absence of banks to offer withdrawals, people in Gaza have relied on people who act as cash-liquidity sellers, or middlemen who convert digital money into cash for fees, which at times have exceeded 50 percent. I remember in August 2025, during the height of the famine and bombardment, I tried to withdraw $650 from my father’s bank account to buy flour. The middlemen made some calculations on their phones and decided I would receive only $350, losing $300 simply to be able to access our own money. Even then, it was not enough to buy a full sack of flour. In that moment, money became a commodity, something you had to pay for just to access.
Though surcharge fees have dropped, in my experience they still hover at about 20 percent to 25 percent due to continued border closures, cash shortages, and the absence of a functioning banking infrastructure. There are currently only two bank branches open in Gaza, and accessing them is difficult. Earlier this year, I waited for more than eighteen hours to open a bank account in Gaza City; even with an account, I still struggle to obtain physical money.
The day after my friend told me about the pharmacy, I got the cash from him and headed there. The banknotes he gave me were worn out, but they were all that was available. When I tried to pay for a ride, the minibus driver refused the banknotes because of their physical condition. Elsewhere in the world, you can easily exchange a worn-out banknote at a nearby bank—an option not available to the people of Gaza. Since October 2023, Israel has blocked new banknotes from entering Gaza, which has led to the severe deterioration of the existing paper currency in the enclave. Vendors and suppliers won’t accept these damaged banknotes, so merchants can’t accept them, either. The crisis has given rise to a new industry in Gaza: money repair clinics, where damaged banknotes are patched together by hand with tape and glue so they can continue circulating in the market.
After refusing my paper money, the driver asked me to pay in small change. Coins and small denominations, once ignored in pockets, have become a daily necessity. I didn’t have any, so we eventually agreed that I would pay through a banking app. We stopped along the way so I could buy an Internet card and try to complete the transfer, struggling with a weak connection to which my phone barely responded. As banknotes in Gaza become obsolete, we have to rely more frequently on digital payments, which are also hard to manage because Internet access is unstable, electricity is frequently cut, and bank transfers often cannot be relied on. We are left, then, with two choices: Either keep the money we cannot use in an account very difficult to access, or transfer our digital balance to cash, knowing we’ll have to forfeit some of it in fees.
When I finally arrived at the pharmacy and confirmed the medicine, I tried to pay with the banknotes my friend gave me. The pharmacist, upon seeing the money I had, asked me to transfer the payment through the banking app, which added a small fee to the total cost. It took me more than half an hour to complete the transaction because of poor connectivity. In these everyday details, a deeper crisis emerges that reflects policies imposed by the Israeli occupation, including restrictions on the flow of cash and the disruption of the banking system. In Gaza, you can have money, but that does not mean you can use it when you need it.
Before leaving, I asked the pharmacist for some small change for the way back. He gave it to me, and it felt like something like a gift. On the way back, I faced no problems, simply because I finally had the right kind of money.