In many parts of the world, access to transportation is taken for granted. People complain about traffic delays, crowded buses, and rising fuel prices. Here in Gaza, we are not debating convenience. We are confronting absence itself.
I have struggled with transportation since my university days three years ago. I lived in southern Gaza, while my university was in the north, twenty-two miles away. My classes began at 9 a.m., and it took about forty minutes by taxi or one hour by bus to get there. My family was not wealthy enough for me to take a taxi every day, so I relied on the university bus to save money.
I used to wake up each morning at 6 a.m., get ready for school, and have a cup of tea. Then, I would wait for the bus outside our house. At 6:30 a.m., which was the only time the bus ran, the driver Abu Al-Saeed would arrive and take us to the university. I would get there early, sit somewhere on the campus, buy a simple breakfast, and wait for my first lecture to begin.
Over time, I started to feel frustrated about arriving so early and about the daily exhaustion of the early bus ride, so my friends and I decided to rent an apartment near the university to save time. Back then, navigating transportation felt like a burden—but at least there was transportation available.
Then the genocide began, and everything changed.
Gradually, the Gaza Strip began to lose its shape. I used to enjoy looking out the bus window at the streets, the shops, and the small details of daily life. Suddenly, classes were suspended, and day by day, the city became more unrecognizable. We did not only lose buildings. We lost our basic rights—including the right to move freely.
As the crossings closed, fuel became scarce. After a few months, the limited fuel available was reserved for hospitals and ambulances. Cars slowly disappeared from the streets. The sound of horns faded. Cars were left parked on street or house corners, inside alleyways and garages, or abandoned under rubble after being destroyed by Israeli bombs. According to Gaza’s Ministry of Transport, about 70 percent of vehicles and about 85 percent of roads were destroyed or rendered inoperable; more than 90 percent of some streets were destroyed, making movement increasingly impossible. Water and sewage lines have burst under bombardment, and vehicles that remained intact are unusable due to fuel and spare parts shortages.
The main street that once felt alive and full of movement was bombed several times. The repeated targeting of roads and intersections is not random; it fragments neighborhoods and obstructs civilian movement. Today, when you walk there, you might not see a single car. You might not even recognize the street itself. Leaving home now requires a plan. Going anywhere has become an uncertain risk.
Since my family’s displacement in May 2024, and since my roof was replaced with a piece of fabric, cars have turned into a distant luxury. The only available transportation left in Gaza are carts pulled by animals, moving slowly through dusty and muddy roads. Donkeys have replaced engines. The rhythm of hooves on broken pavement has replaced the sounds of engines humming in traffic. These carts are not symbols of culture or heritage; they are a necessity. This is what is left after nearly two and a half years straight of Israeli bombardment and siege.
Even as a twenty-two-year-old without mobility issues or major injuries, transportation has become a daily struggle. A place that once took fifteen minutes to reach can now take hours. Getting to hospitals, markets, cafeterias, and even visiting relatives has turned into a challenge. Many drivers lost their livelihoods as cars and trucks were destroyed, and commercial transport has slowed, inflating prices and making even short trips costly. Therefore, every trip requires calculation. Before leaving my family’s tent, I ask myself: Is this trip worth the exhaustion? Is it worth the effort? Is there even a way to get there?
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Hassan Herzallah
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Hassan Herzallah
Earlier this year, I was accepted into a civic development training workshop in central Gaza City. It ran from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. for eight days. On the first day, I had to leave from al-Mawasi in southern Gaza at 6 a.m. I walked through camps and empty sandy roads until I reached a street where I might find an animal cart heading toward the main road that would take me north to the city.
I rode one of those carts and arrived a little after 9 a.m. At the end of the day, I made the same journey back. I reached my tent after 6 p.m., feeling drained and worn out, as if I had crossed an entire city on foot. I was not tired from the training itself, but from the trip to reach it. That night, I decided not to continue attending the workshop, even though it was a valuable opportunity for me.
In the winter, the trek across the city becomes even harsher. Streets turn into mud. Carts slip under the rain. People sit in the carts without cover as water seeps into their clothes and cold wind cuts across their faces. Even walking becomes difficult—every step sinks into wet ground. Leaving tents becomes even more of a calculated decision.
Ramadan this year began on February 17. In Gaza, despite everything, Ramadan, the holy month in Islam dedicated to fasting, prayer, reflection, and charity, remains special. A central component of Ramadan is family gatherings at sunset to break the day’s fast; my grandmother used to invite my whole family to her home on the first day of the holy month, for the iftar. But this year, because of the weather and the lack of transportation, it was difficult for my family to gather.
After the tenth day of Ramadan, we agreed to visit her together and try to revive some of our old traditions, like gathering with all the relatives, where each family prepared different dishes and desserts, and then we all ate together. Afterwards, we prayed Taraweeh together. But that day, heavy rain began to fall, followed by strong winds. We were afraid to leave our tent empty in the harsh weather, especially after having lost our previous one during a storm.
I saw disappointment in my family members’ eyes. In the end, we decided that I would carry the food to my grandmother and break my fast with her alone. My mother finished preparing the meal half an hour before sunset. I was supposed to find a cart and arrive at her tent in a nearby camp just before the call to prayer. But because the rain was heavy, no carts passed by. I had to walk through sandy streets, carrying the food in my hands while rain fell on me, trying to move quickly without slipping.
I arrived about fifteen minutes after sunset. My clothes were completely soaked and covered in mud. The food had gone cold; no steam rose from it anymore. When I entered, my grandmother looked at me, her eyes filled with sadness, and said quietly, “Where are the days of cars? Where are the days of independence?”
She was not only asking about cars. She was asking about a time when reaching somewhere did not require such an extensive plan, and how that ease of movement shaped people’s sense of freedom and independence.
In Gaza, we have not only forgotten what cars look like. We are forgetting what roads used to look like. We are forgetting that reaching somewhere or someone used to be much simpler. Movement has become a privilege. And the distance to reach anywhere has become longer than the road.