Before the war, Ibrahim Hasna, father to a ten-month-old girl, had his sights set on the future. He worked for the municipal government of Gaza City, and received additional income as a war-injured civilian after being wounded in 2018 during a series of demonstrations against Israel known as the Great March of Return. He had built what he describes as a “complete” home in the al-Shaaf neighborhood east of Gaza City.
“I worked so hard to build that house so I could get married,” he says. “It lacked nothing.”
Today, he and his family live in a tent in Gaza City’s Nasser neighborhood, near his wife’s family. He has lost both sources of income October 7, 2023, and relies entirely on humanitarian aid. With no work and limited mobility due to his ankle injury caused by an explosive bullet, Ibrahim spends most of his day inside the tent. Daily life is marked by the absence of even the most basic comforts. Without furniture or storage, even simple tasks like looking for clothes become exhausting.
“Life in the tent has become unbearable,” he says. “I find myself arguing with my wife over the smallest things, and this is affecting our baby girl.”
In better times, tents are typically associated with leisure, camping trips, and short escapes. In Gaza, however, the meaning of a tent has been fundamentally altered. Here, a tent is no longer a symbol of recreation, but a visible marker of loss, instability, and prolonged suffering.
The psychological toll of living in a tent would be difficult enough, but for many, it also serves as a constant reminder of trauma caused by displacement itself. Many displaced individuals constantly revisit memories of their previous lives: the homes they built, the routines they maintained, and the sense of stability they once knew. This chasm between past and present deepens their distress. Instead of offering comfort, remembering life before the war often amplifies people’s grief. What was once ordinary, such as a family gathering or a cup of coffee in a backyard, now feels distant and unattainable.
Roadsides and open spaces throughout the Gaza Strip are lined with rows of makeshift tents, creating crowded areas of displaced families. Whereas they used to live in homes made of concrete, many families in Gaza are now limited to thin fabric constructions that provide little protection from the summer heat and the winter cold. For many, these areas serve as a daily reminder of both loss and a life suspended.
Signs of emotional strain, such as fatigue, irritation, and increased worry, are readily apparent when interacting with displaced people. These aren’t isolated reactions—they are patterns formed by months of instability and trauma.
One of the most profound impacts of living in tents is the erosion of privacy. Before the war, a typical home offered both physical comfort and emotional structure: separate rooms for sleeping, cooking, receiving guests, and maintaining privacy. Today, all of these functions are compressed into a single, overcrowded space. A tent, often no more than 215 square feet, serves as a living room during the day and transforms into a shared sleeping area at night. Entire families eat, sleep, and spend their days in the same confined environment.
For families who once had multiple rooms, a kitchen, and even a small outdoor space, this shift is more than physical. It represents the loss of routine, personal boundaries, and dignity. Simple acts, like having a quiet moment, organizing belongings, or sharing a private conversation, have become nearly impossible. Daily life unfolds in full view of others, leaving little room for personal space or emotional release.
Tahani Shehada, a communications officer at American Near East Refugee Aid, has worked closely with displaced families across Gaza. Through her field observations, she’s noticed a recurring sentiment: “We are living a life in tents that does not reflect who we are.”
Her insight points to a deeper crisis. Displacement is not only about losing material possessions—it is about losing a sense of identity and dignity. In her work, Shehada has met doctors, teachers, nurses, and other professionals from across Gaza’s social fabric who once lived stable lives and played active roles in their communities. Today, many find themselves in overcrowded tents, unable to practice their professions and disconnected from their previous sense of purpose.
For many professionals, the pain of displacement is compounded by an inability to work and contribute under regular conditions. Amid the humanitarian crisis in Gaza, doctors, teachers, and other essential workers face intense psychological pressures, as well as expectations that have become harder to meet without the proper supplies and routines. The instability of displacement, combined with the struggle to meet basic needs, reduces their ability to perform their roles effectively.
This shift reflects a broader reality. Displacement in Gaza is not merely a housing crisis—it is a collapse of social roles and personal agency. Individuals who once formed the backbone of their communities are now navigating survival under conditions that undermine their skills, status, and sense of self.
What Ibrahim misses most about their old life is social connection. “We used to gather with friends every week,” he recalls. “Now we are scattered, and we rarely hear from each other.”
In the tents, his role as a father has also shifted. “I used to think about how to provide a good life for my family,” he says. “Now, I only think about basic needs—water, food lines, and aid distribution.”
He pauses, then adds, “Food and water are essential. But what matters more is having a place that preserves our dignity and allows us to live a decent life.”
Living in tents in Gaza is not just about losing a place to live. It symbolizes a more serious catastrophe which impacts human dignity, social identity, and mental health. Here, the tent serves as more than just a makeshift shelter. It has come to represent protracted uncertainty, where everyday existence is reduced to survival, and where the psychological cost keeps rising.
For Ibrahim and his wife, Amal, the strain of living in a tent has reached as far as reshaping family decisions. His wife no longer wants to have another child under these conditions.
“How can we bring another child into this life?” she asks. “We don’t want our children to grow up in a tent.”