For 90 minutes, the World Cup gives us something the genocide has tried to take away: a sense of community, a sense of normality, and a moment of pure celebration.
Palestinians wave Egyptian flags as they gather to watch Egypt’s World Cup match in Gaza City, on July 4, 2026.(Ahmed Younis / Middle East Images / AFP via Getty Images)
Gaza—When I first heard the 2026 World Cup was about to begin, I barely paid attention.
This was partially because of the timing—most matches this year are airing late at night in Gaza because of the time difference with the United States—but mostly because I couldn’t imagine how anyone here would watch the games.
How could people leave their homes after dark? Since the genocide began, many streets have become deserted at night, while armed looters take advantage of the absence of police and security. And even if people wanted to watch, where would they find electricity to power a television or projector? With daily power cuts, fuel shortages, and so many other obstacles, this World Cup seemed impossible to follow.
But in Gaza, “impossible” is a word people refuse to accept.
One of the first evenings after the World Cup began, I was leaving a workshop around 10 pm. Normally, that is when the streets begin to empty and shopkeepers start closing their businesses. Instead, I saw a crowd of people hurrying in one direction. Children were running excitedly, waving flags. I could hear shouting and cheering from a distance, the same sounds that used to spill out of cafés during major football matches before the genocide.
I followed the crowd, since it was on my way home.
As I got closer, I realized I was witnessing something I never expected to see these days. A local business, in collaboration with an Egyptian humanitarian organization, had set up a projector that cast the Egypt-Belgium match onto a giant billboard in the middle of the Al-Nuseirat refugee camp. Hundreds of people had packed the street so tightly that there was barely room to move. Egyptian flags were raised everywhere.
I couldn’t help laughing at myself. I had lived in Gaza my entire life, yet somehow I had underestimated my own people. Of course they would find a way to watch the biggest football tournament in the world!
There was no time to think. I squeezed into the crowd, standing shoulder to shoulder with an elderly man who remained on his feet for the entire match. Nearby, young boys jumped excitedly every time Egypt attacked. One little boy could barely see over the adults standing in front of him, yet he never stopped trying, bouncing up and down throughout the 90 minutes in the hope of catching another glimpse of the screen.
From the opening whistle, the atmosphere was electric. Every pass was met with applause, every missed chance with collective frustration. Then Egypt scored. The entire street erupted.
People hugged strangers. Children screamed with joy. Flags waved above the crowd. And I—who missed the same excitement for football that I once had—started jumping and screaming. It was possibly the most enjoyable moment I had lived with people in the past three years.
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The celebrations were not only about a goal or a result. They were also about Egypt. For generations, many families in Gaza have supported the Egyptian national team because Palestine has never qualified for the FIFA World Cup. Our own national team has spent decades paying the price of the Israeli occupation. Unable to host official “home” matches in Palestine, it has been forced to play in countries such as Jordan and Qatar.
Since October 2023, those struggles have taken on an even more horrific tone. According to the Palestinian Football Association, at least 565 football players have been killed. Others have been injured, not on football pitches, but while trying to access humanitarian aid. Among them was Suleiman al-Obeid, known across Gaza as the “Palestinian Pelé,” who was killed while waiting in a food aid line. 184 sports facilities that once hosted football matches have been destroyed, while Yarmouk Stadium, Gaza’s most famous stadium, was turned into a detention site where Israeli forces held Palestinian detainees during the genocide. (Despite all of this, Palestine came closer than ever to reaching the 2026 FIFA World Cup, finishing just one win away from the intercontinental playoff before falling to Oman.)
That history is one reason Egypt’s matches feel personal in Gaza. Many Palestinians have long regarded the Egyptian team as one they can cheer for on the world’s biggest stage. During this World Cup, that bond only deepened after Egyptian players and supporters publicly raised the Palestinian flag and expressed solidarity with Gaza throughout the tournament.
As I stood among the crowd, my phone kept vibrating.
My parents were calling. It had been a long day, and they were worried that I still hadn’t come home. The noise around me was so loud that answering would have been pointless. Instead, I started typing a message to tell my mother that I was watching the match.
Before I could send my message, one from my mother appeared on my screen.
She wrote that she knew I had spent the entire day working and applying for scholarships abroad. She had also been scrolling through Instagram and noticed how many places across Gaza were crowded with people watching the match. She suggested that I go and enjoy myself for a while, saying it might help me forget some of the pressure I had been carrying. She unknowingly recommended the very place where I was already standing.
The match ended in a 1–1 draw. Most people went home satisfied. After all, Belgium is one of the strongest teams in the tournament, and Egypt had earned a valuable point.
I left five or 10 minutes before the final whistle so I could see how other neighborhoods were watching the game on my way home.
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What I found was a city improvising.
At one local restaurant, the owner and his friends had carried a television to the kitchen door, set up some chairs, and sat together watching the last minutes of the match, praying it would end without a sad surprise. Their business was connected to a private electricity provider, a service that costs around $10 per kilowatt, far too expensive for most families. Businesses pay for it because they need power to keep their ovens, refrigerators, and lights running. Ordinary residents usually subscribe just to charge their phones.
As I made my way home, I saw the same scene repeat on every street: a crowd gathered around a screen outside a store or home that had found some way to get power through a provider, batteries, or a fuel-run generator the neighbors paid for together. Then I reached the one in our own neighborhood.
My cousin Mohammed had provided a screen. Another neighbor had shared an Internet connection strong enough to stream. My friend Ahmad brought out a battery charged from our solar panel in the morning. Every piece came from somewhere different, but together the symphony was complete; everyone had contributed something, and together they watched the match.
Every street seemed to have found its own solution. It was a simple mix, and together, it became its own fan festival in the middle of the neighborhood. The only ticket you needed was a chair from home. And if you brought tea, coffee, or food, you were expected to share it with everyone sitting nearby. In Gaza, eating alone while those around you have nothing is simply not how neighbors treat one another.
Some matches during the World Cup required planning an entire day in advance, finding a screen, securing electricity, arranging an Internet connection, and deciding where it would be safest to gather in someone’s home or in the street. When kick-off comes, usually after midnight, many of us have no choice but to watch on our phones inside tents or half-destroyed homes, reluctant to go outside because of the risk of Israeli attacks or armed looters.
Even so, we are grateful for those ninety minutes of shared joy, when football briefly allows us to forget the reality surrounding us. But those moments cannot restore the normal life we have lost.
We once watched matches together in warm homes and crowded cafés, free to leave whenever we wanted and return home without fear. Now we watch amid peril and grief. Yet none of these obstacles have kept Palestinians from gathering together. If anything, they have made every shared moment feel even more meaningful.
For 90 minutes, the World Cup gives us something the genocide has tried to take away: a sense of community, a sense of normality, and a moment of pure celebration.
Hassan Abo QamarHassan Abo Qamar is a writer based in Gaza.