In the heart of Gaza City's eastern flank, al-Tuffah neighbourhood has become a graveyard of silence and shattered concrete.
There, survival is not measured in days or meals, but in moments between Israeli airstrikes. Officially labelled by Israel as a "red zone" [a battlefield], al-Tuffah has no active clashes, no visible fighters, only civilians sheltering in the ruins of their former lives, unable to flee or access aid.
Residents endure life without water, power, or food, beneath the unrelenting roar of drones and the thunder of Israeli missiles. The streets, once bustling with schoolchildren and market vendors, are now threaded with the footfalls of the desperate and defiant.
Abu Mustafa, 45, a father of five, stands at the centre of this siege. In the past few months, he has buried three brothers, and was displaced himself over a dozen times. What made the matter worse for him was that his mother had passed away because of starvation.
His mother, he explains, did not die from shrapnel, but from neglect. "She went without food for days. Her medicine ran out. She kept saying, 'I can't take it any more.' And then she stopped talking altogether. Her eyes were open when she died, as if waiting for someone to help us," he described
Abu Mustafa has lost hope. This is why he no longer runs from strikes, choosing to stay. "We're not leaving. It's over. Death under a roof is better than death in a tent," he remarked to The New Arab, his voice quivering with emotion.
On 15 July, the Israeli army issued new evacuation orders targeting neighbourhoods across Gaza City, including al-Tuffah, al-Zeitoun, the Old City, and Sabra. The warnings demanded that Palestinian residents to flee westward toward al-Mawasi, an overcrowded coastal strip already saturated with displaced families.
The army's statement emphasised that Israeli forces were operating with "extreme force" to eliminate the so-called "terrorist infrastructure." But for residents, including Abu Mustafa, these statements translated into something more chilling: a formal declaration that their homes were now free-fire zones, with no functioning humanitarian corridors or guarantees of safe passage.
"The army says this is a battlefield, but we see no fighters. No clashes. Only planes above and missiles around. We are civilians. The only fight here is the one to stay alive," Abu Mustafa said.
Within the neighbourhood, conditions are medieval. There is no organised aid, no governing authority, and no systems left to regulate daily life. Everything depends on fragile neighbourhood ties and improvised solutions.
"If your neighbour has a water well, you might get a few litres. If they have solar panels, maybe they'll charge your battery for a price. Nothing is free any more; even aid has become a commodity," Abu Mustafa added.
Bread made from lentils
Despite the shelling, the alleyways of Tuffah remain alive with defiant routines. Children dart between shattered walls, women bake thin discs of lentil flour over firewood, and men trade updates from one explosion to the next.
For the residents in al-Tuffah, each activity is a form of resistance, an assertion that life, even in its barest form, persists.
"In the red zones, we don't wait for miracles. We invent them," Abu Mohammed, another resident at al-Tuffah neighbourhood, told TNA. "We drink warm water. The day I found a litre of cheap cooking oil, I felt like it was Eid. Tomorrow, if God wills it, we'll make falafel."
But even the basic ingredients of this survival are slipping away. Aid drops, widely publicised in international media, rarely reach frontline neighbourhoods like al-Tuffah.
Instead, residents must venture across dangerous zones to locate stray parachutes, often only to discover the contents are already being sold on the black market.
"Some people treat the aid as business," Abu Mohammed bitterly lamented. "We go looking for parachutes dropped like blessings and find them sold at international prices."
"Life in Gaza is hell. Aid is parachuted into hell. We don't know if it's help or another curse," he added.
Daily routine of death
Every night, the explosions return. Walls tremble, children cry, and residents brace for impact. The fear, once sharp, has dulled into a constant background noise, like the hum of drones or the tick of an empty clock.
"Today, an incendiary shell landed 20 meters from here. It burned our neighbour's house to the ground. None of us was wounded, but during the whole night, we counted the seconds. We did not sleep, and we just wait," Omer Safi, another resident from al-Tuffah neighbourhood, told TNA.
There are no ambulances to arrive. No journalists to film and document. Al-Tuffah has become a closed scene of catastrophe.
"We eat shelling every day. We inhale destruction. Every time we think it's over, it starts again," he added as his voice was heavy with exhaustion.
Attempts to flee westward have proven futile. The so-called safe areas are overwhelmed with makeshift tents, with people packed wall-to-wall, children exposed to the burning sun, and diseases spreading without care, he complained.
"We went west once, but it was worse than here. At least here, we know our neighbours. If we're going to die, we want to die with dignity, not in some anonymous tent camp," Safi added.
Abu Mustafa, Abu Mohammed and Omer find time to direct their frustration outward. "Where are human rights? Where is the UN? Where is the International Criminal Court? All we see are tweets and statements. We don't want words. We want bread. Water. Safety," they said separately.
Since Israel launched its genocidal war on Gaza on 7 October 2023, the Israeli army has killed more than 60,000 Palestinians, according to the Gaza Health Ministry; the majority of those killed are women and children.
Israel's war, comprising airstrikes, artillery shelling, and ground invasions, has turned vast swathes of the Gaza Strip into rubble.
International organisations, including UN agencies and rights groups, have accused Israel of war crimes and acts amounting to genocide.
But for the people of al-Tuffah, these numbers are not headlines. They are family members, neighbours, friends.
"No one is waiting for peace here. We just want one quiet night. One clean cup of water. One child to sleep without screaming," Abu Mustafa said.