GAZA CITY, Gaza Strip — The partially collapsed concrete roof above Masada Abu Jarad’s apartment now features a jagged framework of twisted steel bars protruding aggressively from its edges. Directly underneath this gaping section of the room, which remains entirely open to the elements following the building’s structural failure, Masada’s family has pitched a makeshift tent to secure a semblance of shelter.
The 60-year-old is acutely aware that the remaining structure is critically dangerous. Representatives from the Palestinian Red Crescent and the Civil Defence visited the family last week, issuing a stern warning that they needed to evacuate immediately. Yet, in a territory where Israel continues to block proper reconstruction efforts following nearly three years of a devastating war, viable alternative housing options are virtually nonexistent.
“We have no options,” Masada says. “I want to leave, but who will give me an alternative?”
She has lived in the fragile building, located in Gaza City’s Palestine Square area, for the past year after returning to the northern part of the Gaza Strip from earlier wartime displacement. Even so, this space does not feel like home. Masada’s family originates from Beit Lahiya in the far northern enclave, but they were forced to flee early in the conflict after Israeli military operations decimated the area. They remain completely unable to return.
Following repeated cycles of displacement, the daunting prospect of moving once again without a secure destination has become emotionally and physically exhausting. Furthermore, the financial reality of relocating makes moving an impossibility for many.
“Even if there is a better place, tell me how I can afford to rent it,” Masada asks.
Masada’s precarious situation mirrors a much broader, catastrophic housing crisis affecting survivors across the Gaza Strip, where the war has claimed the lives of more than 73,000 Palestinians. A comprehensive joint assessment conducted by the United Nations, the World Bank, and the European Union revealed that as of October 2025, an astonishing 371,888 housing units—representing 76.6 percent of the entire housing stock in the enclave—have been either completely destroyed or severely damaged. The same assessment estimated that rebuilding Gaza will require more than $71 billion over the coming decade.
The immediate and lethal dangers posed by this depleted and compromised housing infrastructure were starkly underscored on September 16. On that day, a six-storey, war-damaged residential building in Gaza City suddenly collapsed, resulting in the deaths of 21 people, including 12 children, according to figures released by the United Nations and the Gaza Civil Defence. This tragic disaster has served as a harrowing warning for thousands of other families who continue to inhabit structurally compromised buildings out of sheer desperation.
“I stay awake so they can sleep”
For 40-year-old Abdullah Abu Hajar, who lives with his wife and five children in the al-Najma building located in Gaza City’s southern Remal neighborhood, the threat is a constant psychological burden.
The six-storey residential structure they inhabit is severely compromised and structurally unstable. According to Abdullah, approximately 17 families, translating to roughly 50 to 60 people, are currently crammed into the damaged building. On the exterior walls, stark municipal notices explicitly warn residents and passers-by that the structure is unsafe and faces an imminent risk of total collapse.
Yet, despite the visible warnings, the interior routine is dictated by vigilance rather than safety. At night, while his wife and children attempt to find rest, Abdullah stays awake, listening intently to the environment around him. Every unfamiliar sound—whether it is concrete shifting, stones sliding, or an unexplained creaking deep within the skeleton of the building—jolts him into heightened alertness.
“I stay awake all night, keeping watch,” he said. “I can’t close my eyes. I keep just listening to sounds around me.”
Abdullah explains that he worries constantly for his children, who have somehow adapted to the lingering danger despite the terrifying backdrop. He, however, has not. The September 16 building collapse amplified his anxiety to unprecedented levels, leaving him with virtually no sleep since the tragedy occurred.
“I’m already on edge,” he said. “Pero I don’t know where I can go.”
Abdullah and his family were originally displaced from Beit Hanoon in northern Gaza after it was heavily targeted by Israeli attacks. They moved repeatedly throughout the war before finally settling in the al-Najma building. His extended family navigates the exact same uncertainty. Abdullah noted that one of his relatives has been moving constantly between southern and northern Gaza, desperately searching for a patch of land where he can pitch a tent.
“I told him to come and stay with us,” Abdullah said. “Pero he is hesitant because of the condition of this building. At the same time, he has nowhere else to go.”
A room among the rubble
For 36-year-old Islam Hassanein, these paralyzing fears are inextricably linked to the makeshift living space she desperately calls home. A mother of five, Islam has spent nearly a year living with her family inside a single room on the third floor of a heavily damaged building.
She discovered the room after an exhaustive search for somewhere to stay. Upon arrival, the space was choked with rubble and accumulated debris from the war.
“We cleaned it and stayed in it,” she recounted simply.
The building itself is visibly leaning and structurally compromised. Because the internal plumbing is completely non-functional, the family is forced to use an outdoor bathroom. The space bears little resemblance to a functional family home, yet moving out has proven just as difficult as staying put.
“We keep looking, but we can’t find anywhere,” she says. “They might even force us out of here. What are we supposed to do?”
Islam emphasizes that she and her family would leave immediately if presented with a secure alternative.
“If they find us a good place and provide us with a tent, we will leave from the morning,” she says. “Pero where is this place? And where is the tent?”
The building itself serves as a daily reminder of the constant peril they face.
“Every day, you hear the cracking,” she says. “People who live here tell us, ‘It’s cracking.’ Then a column fell, and they took us out of the building temporarily.”
These potentially fatal risks are projected to compound exponentially as winter approaches, bringing with it significantly colder temperatures and heavy seasonal rainfall. Water routinely penetrates exposed roofs and fragile walls, and the additional weight of rainwater threatens to place unbearable pressure on structures that are already structurally compromised.
“Last winter was terrifying,” Islam said. “We were constantly afraid that the building would collapse. I spent most days in my family’s tent because this building was full of openings and would flood whenever it rained.”
“Now, I am very afraid of this winter, and I don’t know what we are going to do.”
According to United Nations figures, thousands of displaced people are currently sheltering in damaged buildings that are widely deemed unsafe, simply because better housing alternatives do not exist. Persistent Israeli restrictions on the entry of essential shelter materials—including tents, tarpaulins, and repair equipment—have severely exacerbated the crisis, leaving the Gaza Strip in a state of suspended animation where recovery is blocked and the threat of renewed escalation remains ever-present.
UNICEF estimates that nearly 84 percent of Gaza’s population, amounting to more than 1.76 million people, are currently living either in overcrowded displacement sites or within damaged, inadequate shelters that offer little to no protection against bitter cold, heavy rain, and seasonal flooding.
Islam reflects that the prolonged conflict has forced ordinary families to make harrowing compromises and take unimaginable risks that they would have rejected under normal circumstances. Though she worries deeply for the safety and psychological well-being of her five children, she feels stripped of meaningful alternatives.
“They are all afraid,” she said. “Pero what can we do? If there is an alternative, I will leave. We leave it to God.”