In the heart of Gaza City, families displaced by the war find fragile refuge in shattered buildings — living proof of survival, loss, and the enduring idea of home.
On a quiet street once known as “Lovers’ Street”, in western Gaza City, the Skeik building still stands — but barely. Once surrounded by cafés, trees, and young couples, this six-storey block is now a shell of its former life, its walls scarred by shrapnel and its windows blown out by artillery fire.
Today, the building shelters families displaced by the Gaza war, people who once had homes, neighbours, and routines — now replaced by fear, loss, and survival.
Life Among the Ruins
Inside, 26-year-old Hadeel Daban lives with her husband and three children — Judi, Murad, and Mohammad — in what used to be someone else’s apartment. They pay what little they can to stay, patching up holes with torn sheets and storing their few belongings in piles of bags.
“This is the 12th place we’ve lived,” Hadeel says quietly. “When we move, I tell my children we’re going to live a new life — not the one we had before.”
Her family’s home in al-Tuffah is less than a mile away, now a ruin. In March 2024, a strike on the neighbouring building killed her mother-in-law and injured her children. Her husband was buried under the rubble — later rescued, but left with a serious head injury.
“He was in a coma at al-Shifa hospital,” she recalls. “Then Israel sealed the hospital during fighting. I didn’t know if he was alive.”
Weeks later, she found him again — alive, but fragile.
A Building Full of Stories
The Skeik building, built in 2008, once symbolized Gaza’s progress. Now it’s a snapshot of displacement. Each floor tells a different story of families who lost everything, finding shelter wherever there’s still a standing wall.
Above Hadeel lives 59-year-old Muna Amin Shabet, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She points to a wall punctured by bullet holes.
“Two days ago, bullets hit inside. We ran and prayed. The children were terrified,” she says.
Muna once lived in al-Tuffah, too. Her home — and her neighbourhood — are gone.
“They levelled the whole area,” she says. “We started again, spoon by spoon, plate by plate. I say I am not alive — I am one of the dead.”
Nearby, Shawkat al-Ansari from Beit Lahia tells of a brother gone missing, a mother and sister sleeping on the street, and children forgetting how to read. “We were living OK before,” he says. “Now we are scattered. Every anchor in life has been cut loose.”
A Fragmented Future
Two years into the Gaza war, the United Nations estimates that 90% of Gaza’s homes have been damaged or destroyed. Families move endlessly — seeking safety, then fleeing again. Even the buildings left standing, like the Skeik, have become transit hubs for survival.
Days after meeting Hadeel, she called again.
“Israeli forces dropped smoke bombs,” she said. “We’re leaving. If we don’t go now, we’ll wake up to tanks.”
She packed once more, taking her children into an uncertain night.
“Nothing can rebuild what’s inside us,” she said. “My children aren’t my children anymore. There’s more suffering than innocence in their eyes.”
Across Gaza, displaced families cling to what remains of home — not walls or roofs, but the hope that one day they might rebuild both.