In this interview, an anonymous Palestinian legal and political science scholar speaks with Associate Editorial Director Alanah Vargas about his life in Gaza under Israeli occupation before and after October 7, 2023, his perspective on the Western world’s response to Palestinian suffering, and what he wishes the world knew about Gaza.

What was your life like before October 7, 2023, and how has it changed since then?

I was born in 1995. I am 29 years old. I am not married, and I have no children. I graduated from the law college in 2017 and have a political science and law degree. I speak multiple languages. I have many nieces and nephews whom I love dearly. It is my dream to travel abroad to study for a master’s degree.

Before October 7, Gaza was a place of contradictions—a land under siege, yet filled with moments of warmth, laughter, and resilience. Our life before October 7 was horrible, but, compared to now, it was beautiful. Even before the genocide, the Israeli government tried to change the narrative to paint us as the aggressors by re-writing the Israeli education curriculum in schools, colleges, and universities. Our basic human rights have become privileges. Necessities like food, water, and electricity have become distant dreams. And that was before the genocide.

Before October 7, I lived in a home that was always alive with noise—four floors bustling with the energy of five brothers, six sisters, and 20 nieces and nephews. Every morning, I awoke to the sound of children rushing to school, their backpacks slung over shoulders, their voices bright despite the weight of the world around them. At night, we gathered to share meals, stories, and whatever small joys we could find. Happiness wasn’t absolute, but it was there, woven into the fabric of our resilience.

Life under blockade meant that even the most basic rights were privileges. Clean water? A dream. Electricity for more than a few hours a day? A luxury. Traveling abroad for education or medical care? Nearly impossible. Israel controlled everything—the flow of goods, the movement of people, even the exact calorie counts for the food that entered Gaza.

It was like living on rations in an open-air prison. Israel allowed just enough food and medical supplies to keep people alive—400 to 500 trucks of goods per day—but never enough for people to thrive. There were never any food reserves and there was no safety net. If your body needed 2,000 calories, that’s exactly what you got—nothing more. No room for growth, no space for hope.

Unemployment rates before the war were already at 45%. After? Rates soared past 80%. We were educated, skilled, and full of potential—but there were no jobs, no opportunities, and there was no way out. The brightest minds in Gaza were trapped, their ambitions suffocated by politics and walls.

Deep down, we knew there was no future waiting for us. Yet, we kept living. We celebrated birthdays in the dark when the power cut out. We joked about the absurdity of waiting hours for a single gallon of fuel. We held onto each other because we were all each other had.

This was Gaza before October 7—not a “war” zone yet, but a pressure cooker of despair where people clung to life despite a world that was determined to forget us.

Now, everything is gone. My home that echoed with laughter is rubble. The children who rushed to school are now counted among the dead. The blockade that strangled us tightened into a noose.

This is not just a story of loss—it’s a story of what was and what could have been, if the world had cared enough to see Gaza as more than just a headline.

What does a typical day look like for you and your family in Gaza now?

A typical day for me now is different these days because living in a war zone has become normal for us. My day changes constantly depending on the “war” situation. I usually wake up at 8:00 AM to check in with my family and ask what they need. Then I set out to find water with one of my brothers. Sometimes, we must walk long distances to find water, which is especially dangerous because we know there is a high likelihood we will be killed by bombs or shelling each time we go outside. To save the family, we travel in small, separate groups. This way, if someone is killed, the rest will live.

Local community members help collect and distribute clean water to water trucks that come once a week. Each person has their own gallon to fill with water, and our family usually needs between six to seven gallons per day, and each gallon is about 20 liters. We may need more depending on whether the family needs to do laundry or clean. If the water truck does not arrive, we have to find water elsewhere. Sometimes, we must drink unclean water because we have no other choice.

After I get water, I check on my mom who has heart issues, high blood pressure, and has suffered a stroke. I take my mom to the hospital. I take her to the hospital every day to help lower her blood pressure which we cannot do at home because Israel has blocked the inflow of medical equipment.

Then I go to a coffee shop to use the internet and catch up on current events, or talk with my friends about our fears and what we predict will happen next.

Later, I go to my neighborhood block to collect items or materials from under the rubble that I can sell so that we can survive. The IDF has designated my neighborhood block as a “red zone,” which means that it’s very dangerous to be there.

I then visit my nieces and nephews and try to distract them from the “war” because they are severely traumatized. This is my normal routine.

My routine is often disrupted when the IDF drops leaflets without any forewarning. We must prepare to leave immediately because the IDF usually gives us between 30 minutes and two hours to evacuate. This is not easy because we are a family of 23, which requires us to pack up all our tents and mattresses. We have no time to collect water, food, or pack our belongings. Evacuations take a lot of planning because we must decide where to go, and must find new water source locations.

There are days we must survive without any food or water. I have gone without food for 17 days, surviving on nothing but dirty water. After five days without food, it becomes hard to swallow water because your throat rejects it. To help our bodies process the water, we put salt on our tongues. We try to save food and water for the children, but sometimes they don’t eat anything for three day-periods. We try to be strong for the children no matter how exhausted and sick we feel.

My family now lives in tents. We used to live in a compound of tents in Rafah. The IDF bombed our compound, and my family miraculously survived. We were then forced to shelter at Al Nasr Hospital in Khan Younes where one of my brothers worked as a doctor. The IDF then bombed the second floor of Al Nasr Hospital, claiming that Hamas leaders were in that building—they were not. My two nephews were injured in the stomach, and my one-year-old niece received multiple pieces of shrapnel in her back, close to her spine. My niece went for treatment at the European Hospital in the south of Gaza. At first, doctors were afraid to remove the shrapnel because it was so close to her spine. One doctor successfully removed it, but there are two other fragments still embedded in her flesh.

What does “home” mean to you?

Home is more than walls and a roof—it is the cradle of hope, the keeper of childhood, the echo of laughter and tears woven into memories. It is where the past lingers in every corner and the future whispers in the wind. Home is dreams nurtured in safety, history written in the soil beneath our feet, and family bound by love and struggle.

But when the genocide came, when Israel destroyed my home, it wasn’t just bricks that collapsed—it was a small universe. Everything vanished: the scent of my mother’s cooking, the shade of the old olive tree, the familiar paths worn by generations. Now, we are scattered like seeds in a storm, unsure where life will plant us. The future is a question mark, a blank page stained with loss.

Our home was never measured in money. My family built our home over a 45-year span. It housed me along with 23 of my family members. It was paid for in blood—the blood of those who defended it, the tears of those who buried their loved ones beneath its earth. Then it was flattened in the blink of an eye.

And while it now lies in ruins, home lives on in our stories and in our resistance. Home is not just where we were—it is where we will someday return.

Can you tell the story of what happened to your family home?

My home was bombed. I watched this happen with my own eyes on my birthday—a day that now feels cursed. My mother also witnessed the destruction of our home and had a stroke and heart attack after it collapsed. People were trapped under the rubble from the airstrike. The people who died were not accounted for and I could hear them screaming for help from under the rubble, but I could not help them with my bare hands. We need equipment to save these people, but the Israeli government has refused to help extract the bodies. Thousands of bodies are still missing because the Israel military uses some type of rocket that turns bodies—and bones—to dust, leaving no trace of them.

How do you earn money for your family now?

To provide for my family, I collect wood and plastic from local neighborhoods that we can use or sell. I sacrifice myself to collect these materials to earn money. My neighborhood has been designated a “red zone” on the Israel map. It is so dangerous that not even insects or birds live there anymore.

One time, I nearly got bombed while collecting materials. I was 10 feet away from my home when the IDF bombed it. I do not know how I survived. I was in the middle of the street. Your mind gets confused and disoriented after being bombed. I don’t know how I felt in that moment because I cannot accept what I witnessed. I feel like I am living in a nightmare. We have no choice about whether we live or die. We have no choices at all in this life.

How does it make you feel when you read western headlines about Palestine that use terms such as ‘Hamas terrorists,’ ‘Hamas-Israel conflict/war,’ or ‘injured Gazan children?’

Reading the news makes me feel frustrated, angry, and brings me to tears. The mainstream narrative talks only about Hamas, but never about us. It brings me pain because of all the lies I’ve read, misrepresenting our stories to the world. The ICC and ICJ were not created to hold Europe, America, or Israel accountable; they were created to hold countries such as Russia, China, and the Arab States accountable. They have neglected our narrative. But I think support for our cause is growing. I believe the narrative is changing to include our voices and our lived experiences.

What hopes or dreams do you have for the future—for yourself, your family, or Palestine as a whole?

I love my country, but for now, I need to focus on my family. I just want a home for my family, and we want to stay in Gaza. If there is hope for a future outside of Gaza, then I will go for it, but I wish to stay here. If I go to Egypt, for example, I will be stateless forever. More than anything, I just want a home. One thing to know about Palestinians is that when it comes to family, everything is different from the West—we are deeply attached to one other. We live with our extended family members. We do not leave our families. So the idea of living as an individual, far away from family and home is foreign to most Palestinians—myself included.

We Gazans are not asking for a fortune; we just want a home. Unfortunately, it is hard to have dreams when our future is uncertain. Today I’m alive. Tomorrow, I may be dead. Today I am just grateful that my family is alive.

What do you wish the world knew about Gaza?

If you seek to understand Palestine—especially the devastation in Gaza—you must face some harsh historical realities. History is not just the past; it is the lens through which we see the present and the future. It remains unchanged, though our understanding of it changes over time.

Our claim to this land is written in the blood and resilience of generations. I can offer you proof—historical, religious, geopolitical—but if you truly value truth, you will seek it yourself. Break free from the narratives that blind you. The choice to see clearly is yours and the world will remember which side you stood on.

If your conscience remains unmoved by Gaza’s suffering, then you must question what it means to be human. Choose not to look away, for history judges not only actions but complicity. The weight of silence is a burden for future generations to bear.

The world condemns us for starting this “war” on October 7, but history tells a different story. I am not here to justify Hamas or the resistance—I am here to expose the hypocrisy of those who judge us while ignoring decades of oppression.

Where was the world in 1948, when colonial powers green-lit the Zionist occupation of Palestine, enabling the massacre and forced displacement of our people? Israel was intended to be a Western outpost—a strategic foothold in the Middle East for which Palestinians have suffered.

Where was the world in 1916, when the Sykes-Picot Agreement carved up our region for colonial powers? Where was the outrage in 1920, when the British Mandate paved the way for Zionist colonization, leading to the ethnic cleansing of Palestine in 1948? The West didn’t just watch—they armed, funded, and legitimized the theft of our homeland to serve their imperial interests.

Where was the outrage in 1967, when they seized Gaza, Jerusalem, and our ancestral lands? The world stayed silent as our homes were stolen and our rights erased.

Now, you point fingers at us for resisting. Look in the mirror before casting blame. We are not the savages your media portrays—we are the heirs of an ancient civilization, the original people of Canaan. We gave the world the alphabet, pioneered agriculture, and built a culture that predates empires.

Israel is a colonial project; a pawn of foreign powers. Our struggle is not terrorism—it’s the defiance of a people who refuse to be erased. The truth will prevail.

This interview was conducted with a JURIST correspondent on the ground in Gaza. The opinions expressed in this interview are those of the interviewee and do not necessarily reflect the position of JURIST or JURIST editorial staff. The interviewee’s identity has been anonymized due to security concerns.