Beit Lahiya, Gaza, Palestine – Amid towering piles of rubble and destruction, mother of five Faten Abu Haloub, her family and her in-laws have set up adjacent tents on the ruins of what used to be their extended family home.
Her husband Karam’s parents – 60-year-old Dalal and 65-year-old Nasser – have eight children, three sons and five daughters, of whom two still live at home.
Home is now the little tent next to Karam and Faten’s with a fire pit in front and makeshift “zones”.
There’s the kitchen – no more than a few wooden planks to rest cooking utensils and their meagre food supplies on – near the fire.
Off to the side is the bathroom, a stone-lined hole dug in the sand that serves as a latrine with more stones marking out a tiny bathing area, the whole section shielded by blankets draped over sticks stuck upright in the ground.
Stacked up everywhere are water jugs and buckets for collecting water, which has become the family’s daily struggle.
Severe water shortages have plagued the area, which have become more apparent since displaced residents began returning to their homes when the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas began on January 19. Oxfam says water supplies are at 7 percent of pre-conflict levels as Israel’s bombing of the besieged enclave destroyed water and sanitation infrastructure.
Struggling for water
Faten, 28, and Karam, 39, start their mornings carrying their buckets to fill from communal pipes or whatever other source of water they can find.
Sometimes, Karam’s parents join them in hauling and searching for water, something unheard of in Gaza’s traditional society, in which elders do not perform such physically demanding tasks. Younger family members typically do them.
However, the war has upended all conventions. With resources stretched thin and survival at stake, everyone, including the elderly and small children, is forced to contribute.
Karam’s two brothers who live in tents nearby bear the primary responsibility for securing water, but when water runs out, the entire family goes out in all directions to look for more.
Throughout Israel’s more than 15-month war on Gaza, Faten’s family had stayed on in the north, braving the intense bombardments until they were forced to flee to western Gaza City in October when a large-scale Israeli ground offensive in the north began and lasted three months.
“We didn’t want to leave. … We were among the last people to stay in the north,” Faten says.
“But in the end, we couldn’t stay. As soon as the ceasefire was announced, my husband immediately returned to see our home,” Faten says while sitting on a stone by the fire pit and gesturing to the rubble around her.
“I didn’t recognise the area or where our home once stood. The level of destruction was shocking.
“How can people live in a destroyed place? No essentials, no infrastructure, no water, no sewage, no electricity,” Faten says. “Sometimes, I think we would have been better off dying in the war.”
Sometimes, a water truck comes around, she says, and everyone in the family runs to try to get a spot in the filling queue. But sometimes the Abu Haloubs don’t get a spot, and sometimes the water runs out.
Faten notes that no one is providing a steady water supply and, while she knows the municipalities are unable to restore the pipes amid the destruction, she hopes someone involved in the aid process – local authorities, international aid organisations or humanitarian groups – will be able to help.
No relief in sight
To say water has become an obsession for the family is putting it lightly.
“We ration it strictly. We fear wasting a single drop,” Faten says with a laugh as her mother-in-law joins the conversation.
“I spend all day shouting at my daughters-in-law and daughters about water use,” Dalal says.
“I set strict rules. No more than one person can bathe per day. Bathing is limited to once every 10 days. Only one family can do laundry per day,” Dalal says as she sits by the fire, preparing tea and coffee for her interviewers.
“We used to have 5,000-litre [1,320-gallon] water tanks at home and electricity to pump water,” she reminisces.
“We never lived like this before. I used to bathe my children daily or every other day,” Faten agrees.
“Kids get dirty and need constant care, but that’s nearly impossible now.”
Karam interrupts as he sparingly washes his children’s hands and faces. “My back is broken from carrying water.”
But they have had to make do, Faten says, recounting how recent storms presented an unexpected boon.
“When the storm hit, the water trucks disappeared, so we started collecting rainwater in all the containers, buckets and tubs we could find.
“At first, people around us were sceptical, but soon they followed our lead. We used rainwater for everything. It became a perfect alternative.”
Dreaming of basic comforts
“Having running water from a tap feels like an impossible dream. A proper bathroom with running water is also a dream,” Faten says.
“Pipes, hoses and taps with water – these are dreams for us now.”
When they were living in tents in western Gaza City before the ceasefire, they dreamed of small comforts, especially when they heard mobile homes would be brought in as part of the ceasefire.
“We were so happy. … People even started arguing over who would get these caravans,” Faten says, laughing.
“We were told that families with more than six members would receive them, and I thought to myself: ‘If only I had two more children so I could qualify for one!’”
“But reality was different,” she says. “No caravans, no services, no reconstruction, no water, no rubble removal. Nothing. We just returned to live amid the destruction.”
“The war hasn’t ended. We’re still living it. Its shadow has never left our lives.”
