It was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon last month in Gaza, and I was on my way to the barber to get my hair cut, something I hadn’t done in a month. During the rest of the year, I get my hair cut every week, but in the winter, I like keeping it thick because it keeps me warmer. This was a special occasion: My friend’s wedding was the next day, and I had to look presentable. I hurried to make it to the barber’s place before sundown.
When I arrived, another man was already in the chair getting his hair cut. The barber told me I was cutting it close to closing time, but I didn’t have time to wait another day. When it was my turn, I listened to the buzz of the barber’s clippers as he shaved the left side of my head. But halfway through the cut, the clippers abruptly turned off, and the buzzing stopped. We looked outside to see the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds. With no solar power, the corded clippers were dead, and I was left with a half-trimmed head. I didn’t want to walk back to my tent looking like that, much less show up to my friend’s wedding.
In Gaza, our life depends on sunlight. Before the war, solar panels were mostly found in areas without access to electricity. But now, electricity has been out throughout the Strip for more than two years, forcing us to rely on solar power to use any electrical devices. The sun, which once existed in the background, has become a central force in our lives, shaping when we work, eat, communicate, and even groom ourselves. Our days are dictated by its power. When it is out, life moves; when it disappears, everything stops. Life in Gaza is not just about surviving war or hunger—it’s also about navigating the quiet battles of everyday dependence on nature. Today, relying on the sun is a necessity for survival, not a choice.
Amid the winter cold, during which the sun doesn’t show its face as frequently, life has become that much more difficult. The season no longer announces itself only through its bitter cold, heavy rain, and strong winds alone; it announces itself through the sun’s fleeting presence.
This is now my second winter living in a camp in al-Mawasi, in southern Gaza, where my family has stayed since July 2024. I wake up before sunrise, wondering if I’ll be able to charge my family’s small flashlight battery and our phones. I quietly calculate in my head: The solar panels, which are located in the center of the camp, open at 10 a.m. and we only have three chargers—so whose phone should I charge first, in case there’s no time or power left for the others?
Before we lost electricity, my family would go to a man named Abu Wisam, a small electricity provider, if we were having trouble with the power. Now, on most winter mornings I rush to Abu Adam, our temporary neighbor in the camp, who has several solar panels. For a small fee, he charges phones, providing a lifeline for everyone in the camp.
On the day of my haircut, I accompanied my friend Hamouda to buy tent materials. My family’s tent was worn out and needed covering to prevent rain from getting in during the coming storm, so I bought a plastic canopy; the tent where Hamouda’s family was staying was barely livable, so he was there to buy a proper one. Before we left for our errand, I left my phone at a charging station to take advantage of the sunlight. On our way back, we ran into our friend Masoud, a neighbor since childhood, whose wedding was the next day. He insisted on inviting us, especially since most of our old friends and neighbors would be there, and he wanted us to attend a wedding photoshoot the next morning. Hamouda and I agreed to come.
When I returned to the camp, it was nearly 2:30 p.m.. I started setting up the plastic canopy and covered our tent as quickly as possible. Then I decided to head to Abu Samer, the barber, to get my hair cut, while Hamouda went to the tailor to fix his pants, which had become too loose after losing weight during Israel’s forced starvation of Gaza. We parted ways, planning to meet the next morning.
When I arrived at the barber’s tent at three, there was a small ray of sunlight left in the day. But Abu Samer was right—I was too late. When the clippers lost power, he looked at me and said, smiling: “I told you, we won’t make it today.”
I returned to our tent with only half a head of cut hair. Before I had to turn off my phone to save battery, I quickly sent a message to Hamouda to tell him I wouldn’t be able to attend the wedding. I was frustrated. It wasn’t just because of the haircut or the wedding: when everything depends on solar panels, down to the smallest details of our lives, I’m left exhausted, sad, and angry, constantly reminded of how life has changed in Gaza.
Next to me, I noticed my little sister Malak looking sad. She had a school test at 9 a.m. the next morning, but had realized she wouldn’t be able to take it because her phone, on which she planned to take the test, hadn’t charged and wouldn’t be able to until the solar panels were back on.
By 5:30 p.m., it felt like midnight. I decided to go sit with my friend Khalil in his tent next door to talk and ease the sense of loneliness and cold a little. When I arrived, I found him already asleep, probably because the day was so short and darkness rules everything here. In Gaza, night isn’t just a matter of the sun’s absence—it brings total darkness, as anything that gives light goes out after sunset.
Khalil hadn’t gone to sleep because he was tired, but simply because there was nothing to light the night. The streets were dark, lamps were limited, and phones were barely working; we all have had to adjust our lives to this reality. I sat alone for a while in the dark, feeling the weight of the short day, then returned to my tent to get ready for bed.
That night it rained so hard and the winds were so strong that it felt like at any moment, our tent could fly away. The next morning, I tried to light a fire to start my day. A feeling of frustration weighed on me—especially since most of my old friends were now gathered together taking pictures, while I was left out.
Suddenly, I heard someone calling my name from the entrance of our tent. It sounded like Hamouda, even though he was supposed to have already left for the wedding photos. I went out to see, and there he was. He told me he’d arrived late to the tailor the day prior, and the tailor couldn’t finish sewing his pants in time, so he couldn’t go to the wedding either.
We decided to call our friend Masoud to apologize for not coming. “It’s good you didn’t come,” he said when I called. “The whole trip would have been wasted. We postponed the wedding because of the rain and storms. There were some problems yesterday.”
This is what life looks like on solar energy in Gaza. These small, strange inconveniences reveal the fragility of life when the sun decides the schedule. Small details that might seem trivial anywhere else become harsh symbols here: half a haircut, a phone that doesn’t charge for two days, a sewing machine that stops in the middle of sewing pants, a fridge that only works for a few hours.
Solar panels have become a silent economic force, too. They decide who can work and who has to wait, who earns and who loses. They determine income, productivity, and sometimes dignity. Those with better solar equipment have a fragile advantage, while others must rely on sharing or favors.
What makes this life even harder is that we continue to have to live like this, even though there is a so-called ceasefire. We still don’t have electricity, and have been given no sign it will return. Gaza remains isolated, looking to the sky for power. Here, solar energy, praised worldwide as a clean and sustainable choice, represents a form of abandonment. It is not a planned transition, but a last resort.
Living like this teaches you patience, but it also exposes the delicacy of modern life. Electricity, once invisible and taken for granted, has for us become a memory of a past life. When solar panels control your ability to get a haircut, cook, study, and communicate, you begin to understand how deeply something as basic as electricity is connected to human dignity. This is not about technology, but rather, about people rearranging their lives around absence—parents trying to create warmth in cold tents, students chasing education with dying batteries, and workers running against the sunset to earn their daily bread.
In Gaza, survival is no longer only about avoiding bombing or finding food. It has become a silent daily battle against the darkness, the cold, and the waiting—a battle where the enemy is not always visible, but its effects are present in every cold night and every silent machine.
The sun continues to rise each morning, bringing us a fragile sense of hope. We wake up wishing the days last longer, that the sun will be more generous. When electricity returns, if it ever does, our lives will remain written by the light of the sun.