Gaza—On a recent Thursday morning, when my neighbors and I heard that an Israeli-American-controlled “aid” distribution center had opened in the relatively nearby area of Netzarim, our first reaction was fear. We had seen the chaos at the Rafah distribution point on social media. It was full of disorder, danger, and humiliation. That alone discouraged many of us. But the deeper reason was this: We simply don’t trust them. Not America, not Israel. How can anyone trust the same people who kill us to feed us? What’s to stop them from shooting us, taking hostages, or humiliating us again?

Then, a man’s voice broke the silence.

“I don’t have flour, sugar, or macaroni. I have no food today to feed my children. I’m going. I have no other choice,” he said. His voice trembled with anger—anger at his hunger, his helplessness. Others began to echo the same pain.

“We have nothing to lose. Any outcome is better than listening to our children cry from hunger.”

We decided to go, or we were forced to go. It doesn’t matter. We took no phones, no money, nothing of value. The roads are too dangerous, filled with highwaymen armed with knives and sometimes guns, preying on the weak. There is no protection, no order, no trace of humanity.

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We started walking. We live in Al-Nuseirat, so we considered ourselves pretty close— about five to four kilometers on feet from the aid point, better than others who have to walk 13 kilometers. We walked down Salah Al-Din Street until we saw it: a massive iron fence, stone barriers, and surveillance cameras. It looked more like a military checkpoint than a place to help people. But we kept walking—until we realized this was the humanitarian aid point.

Then came one of the most dehumanizing moments: walking in long lines between barbed wire, or what’s known here as the “Halabat” like prisoners inside a detention center.

Beyond it was chaos. I wasn’t just disappointed—I was deeply disturbed. It wasn’t the lack of aid that shocked me. There was no system. Boxes of supplies were scattered on the ground, sparking violence. People fought just to reach them. Some tore open the boxes, grabbing only what they needed—especially flour—it’s more expensive than gold!—and left the rest behind.

The crowd grew by the second, and there was only one way in and out, making movement almost impossible. There was no space for the vulnerable—no priority for widows, the injured, or the elderly.

Groups of thieves moved freely through the crowd, digging through the boxes for the most valuable products to resell, concerned only with their own profit. No one stopped them. No one even tried. Enough pictures had already been taken—images of desperate, hungry people entering the aid zone. That alone was enough to use in the media to paint Israel as a benevolent force in front of the world.

But the thieves weren’t satisfied with just the food. They took advantage of the chaos and stole everything they could—surveillance cameras, iron fences, anything they could carry. They stripped the place bare, leaving it as empty as the promises that built it.

The scene resembled throwing meat into a cage of starving lions, letting them fight for their own survival—while the American mercenaries stood as spectators, holding heavy weapons for their own safety, backed by armored cars. Most of us—strong or weak—returned with nothing but grief and sorrow. We walked home, not thinking of what we had gained, but of how we would face our families—how we would look into the eyes of the children, sisters, and mothers, still empty-handed, still helpless.

The other neighbors and I thought this chaos was just temporary because the new system was unfamiliar, but day by day, things didn’t get any better. On the contrary, we started to hear about massacres—about people being martyred trying to get food.

Another morning, neighbors came to me and said, “Hassan, there is nothing left in our home to eat; we have to go. Do you want to come with us?” My family refused, so I spent some hours waiting for my neighbors to return safely. Once I saw them at the start of our street, I saw their shocked expressions, a horrible look in their eyes, with each one carrying two kilograms of flour. Each of their families had at least seven or eight members. When I asked them what happened, they didn’t talk much. They only said that, after a lot of fighting to reach the aid, “we took these kilograms from the opened boxes. Suddenly, Israeli forces opened fire and began artillery shelling around the place. As soon as these few boxes were finished, a lot of people got injured and martyred. We hardly managed to escape because of this scene.”

This has only forced us in Gaza to ask: Does the world truly want to help us? Gaza doesn’t need cheap marketing from war criminals and supporters of genocide masquerading as solutions for its people. Our demands are clear, basic, and essential: reopening all the ports and supporting our long-standing friend—UNRWA, the trusted and historic ally of Palestinians, especially the people of Gaza

We grew up in UNRWA schools and health centers. The employees were Gazan citizens, and even the foreign UNRWA staff who visited our schools in Gaza were kind people with warm smiles. UNRWA was the institution that understood us best—that knew we are not terrorists, nor poor, needy, or beggars. We are people who have always lived with dignity and generosity. But a brutal occupation has destroyed everything we own and now humiliates us by forcing us to beg for what should be our most basic rights.

UNRWA’s aid distribution has always been entirely different. It is structured, respectful, and deeply rooted in the community. Distribution points are spread throughout Gaza—in schools for tents and food and in health centers for medicine. The distributors are familiar faces: teachers, neighbors, and respected community members, supported by local security to ensure order. There are designated lines for women and the elderly.

Most importantly, we were treated as human beings. The elderly were given priority and respect. Women were treated like family—never forced to fight alongside men just to get what they needed. Instead of looking at us with pity or false mercy, they looked into our eyes with genuine equality.

Now, we are forced to choose between two types of death—starvation or bullets.