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When did you arrive in Gaza?

I went to Gaza last September. At the time, all our colleagues living in Gaza City had fled with their families. Many of them had moved to our main office in Zawaida. I initially shared the office with them. I think there were seven or eight families, living in very precarious conditions.
We organised ourselves as best we could in a space of about 80 m². There was a small area set aside for work, and the rest was divided into small rooms, one for each family. Privacy was almost non-existent. There were children, old people... everyone mixed together. There were very few sanitary facilities, and everyone did what they could.

Living in an office, with no separation between private and professional life, was extremely difficult for them, very hard on their dignity. But there was no other solution.
And then, paradoxically, it was a “chance” for me: I created incredible bonds with my colleagues. I shared their daily lives, met their families and experienced unforgettable moments.

What was your role?

The position of “Area Manager”, as it's called in humanitarian jargon, is a bit like a local head of mission for Gaza. We already had a structure in place before October 7. We already had Sharaf, our national Area Manager, who had been working with Humanity & Inclusion (HI) for some fifteen years.

Sharaf has a central role, he's the captain of the ship, with responsibility for the lives of his colleagues in his hands, deciding each morning whether or not to maintain movement, which safer routes to take, where to work, while setting the course for operations despite the enormous constraints of access, logistics and security. With the emergency, the idea was to have a back-up, me, to support him. My role has been to manage the expatriates, ensure the safety of the staff, and also supervise the programmatic aspects and day-to-day operational management. There's a real family spirit in the team, it's very strong.

What was your first impression when you arrived?

I had prepared myself a lot. We always expect the worst, it's a protective mechanism. But nothing prepares you for such an ocean of pain, such human suffering. I'll never forget entering Gaza: it was like a scene from a film.

We passed through Kerem Shalom, with a United Nations convoy. When you go through the security post, you really feel like you're entering a prison. Everything is designed to give you that feeling. I was in an armored vehicle and then we started driving through a landscape of ruins, everything demolished. It was surreal.

And then you arrive in a completely depopulated area, but there are still people. Some are living in the ruins of their homes, rather than in tents, even though the areas are very dangerous. You don't understand how they survive.

What was daily life like in Gaza?

The days were very hard. There are the omnipresent drones, the noise, the constant bombing. At first, it's very disturbing. But with time, you get used to it. Personally, I felt relatively safe when I was in the office or in collective housing. It's when you're travelling by car that you're most exposed, because you never know where the strikes are going to land.

I was especially worried about my colleagues, especially in the evenings when they went home. Attacks are random and unpredictable. I spent most of my time on my phone, especially in the early days, especially as I had no internet at night, which made everything even more frightening.

How did you live through the ceasefire?

The ceasefire was unreal. Nobody really expected it. Some colleagues were able to return home, and it was very moving to see them regain a little hope. But on March 18, everything changed. Gaza was hit extremely hard, with much more powerful weapons. It was the first time I really feared for my life. There was nowhere safe.

Then, from May 15 onwards, the strikes became constant again. I was exhausted, hypervigilant and couldn't sleep. For three days, I didn't sleep a wink. I ended up sleeping with earplugs.
We were confined to the guesthouse, isolated, without seeing our colleagues. It was very hard psychologically, especially in Gaza, where you need human contact to hold you together. I didn't get to say goodbye to all my colleagues. I couldn't go back to Gaza City. Thirty of them returned, with the constant fear of new strikes and of having to leave their homes again, to experience another forced displacement.

What was your relationship with our Palestinian colleagues?

I quickly became attached to them. They're incredibly welcoming and generous. It's a level of humanity I'd never encountered, even in the Middle East. I left at the worst moment of the war for the Gazans, with the Israeli military expansion resuming, the deprivation of food and essential goods, the setting up of food distribution points by the Israeli authorities in total chaos. Some of them collapsed when I left. They were happy for me, relieved that I was leaving because they were afraid for my life. But they're convinced they're going to die. It was very hard to hear that.
They're at the end of their tether. Twenty months of atrocities, of survival, of constant anguish. Some no longer dare sleep with their children, for fear that a bomb will kill them all at the same time. Since March 2, nothing has been coming in: no more food, no more fuel, etc. They are surviving on the last stocks they have. They are surviving on their last stocks, which are insufficient, especially for families with babies.

How do you see HI's operations?

I'm very proud of what we've done. The work with HI teams, particularly in rehabilitation and mental health, is exceptional. Risk education teams do essential work in contaminated areas. It is often the most vulnerable populations who live there, and they are the most exposed.

I'm thinking of this adorable child, who had lost his parents in a strike and was living with his aunt. Two weeks later, another strike seriously injured him. Thanks to the HI teams, he was able to walk again. Seeing him smile again was heartbreaking.

What we don't say enough is that this war violates all international rules. Hospitals are bombed, journalists, ambulance drivers and NGOs are regularly targeted. It's a methodical relentlessness, but also psychological warfare.

I've also seen this in the West Bank, where roads are destroyed to make journeys longer, but here it's worse. They send false messages via drones, recordings of people screaming for help. My colleagues would often say to me: “I thought it was a bombardment... but no, it was a recording broadcast from the air.”

This desire for psychological annihilation is inhuman. I don't even know how to bounce back from it anymore.