“Please, come back one day to see us,” Ahmed, a Gazan taxi driver, asked as he handed me his business card at the Gaza–Israel border. I first visited Gaza in 2020 to undertake health research. Upon leaving, Ahmed dropped me on the only side of the border crossing he was allowed to see.
Ahmed journeyed with me for six weeks, ferrying me from my apartment by the Mediterranean to many of Gaza’s hospitals, restaurants, supermarkets and coffee shops. I learned to recognise Gaza’s streetscape through Ahmed. We chatted about the state of healthcare, the strawberry and olive farms, his home and family, his driver jobs for international aid organisations, and his love of chauffeuring foreigners with fringe benefits for improving his English.
We were excited to discover that an Australian humanitarian colleague had regularly used his taxi services when living in Gaza some time earlier. “Tell Danielle, ‘Ahmed says hello,’” he had said with a smile.
As we pass the one-year mark of the current horrors, the streets of Gaza are barely identifiable, more than half of Gaza’s hospitals are completely out of service, and the once “red gold” fields of strawberries Ahmed showed me, which should have been nearly ripe for harvest, lie in dusty ruins.
My friend Mahmoud (not his real name), a language professor in Gaza, wrote to me this month: “Amid all the attention to Iran’s attack, we woke to the news of the killing of 40 people in Khan Younis this morning. I woke up several times last night to the sounds of explosions and machine guns. The genocide continues in silence.”
Ahmed and I have remained in regular contact via WhatsApp since October 7, 2023. I wait for his short updates and the comfort of the double blue ticks with every message received and read. But it has been hard to keep up with his location amid forced evacuations. His movements are no longer those of a taxi driver proud of his tidy air-freshener-scented car and professional service.
On October 15, Ahmed wrote, “Hello Rachel. Thank you for your communication and reassurance and prayers. The situation in Gaza is very dangerous.”
On October 23, he offered a few words: “I’m in Khan Younis city. We are dying here.”
By November 3, Ahmed and his family had evacuated: “I am in Gaza City, at an UNRWA school. Today, Gaza is burning. There is no safe place”.
At the time, Gaza City was being encircled for the first time by Israeli ground forces, cutting the north of Gaza off from the south. Ambulances and schools being used for shelters were coming under direct bombardment. Tom White, then director of UNRWA in Gaza, stressed that the agency was no longer able to provide safety for civilians seeking shelter under the security banner of a United Nations flag. Ahmed was forced to leave again.
On November 14, he wrote: “We have now gone to Al-Mawasi in Khan Younis because of the bad situation in Gaza … We live in a small room … and there are 10 people in this room”. He sent a photo of his toddler daughter smiling with a fountain pigtail. “How old is she?” I asked. “One year. She does not know what is going on in the country, but is affected when she hears the sound of shelling and is affected when we move from house to house.”
By December 12, Ahmed had fled farther south: “Hi Rachel. How are you? I am in Rafah. If you can send me coordination from your country for our exit from Gaza to Australia, you will save our lives from death. Me, my wife, and my little daughter.” More than 7,000 Palestinian visa applications to Australia have been rejected. What could I say but promise to help?
In January, Ahmed asked for assistance to manage his daughter’s skin irritation. “It is very painful. She is always crying.” Children in Gaza are experiencing agonising, sometimes disfiguring, yet entirely preventable skin conditions because of a total lack of basic sanitation and clean water. He sent a picture of an angry red rash on her thighs and buttocks. I replied with advice received from doctor friends on fungal creams and moisturising lotions. Thankfully, her skin started to improve.
On March 6, 2024, Ahmed had ping-ponged back to Khan Younis: “Hi dear. My family and my daughter are good. I am in the Al-Mawasi area.”
On May 5, another move: “I live in Rafah now. The Israeli army is sending us leaflets to evacuate Rafah. By God, the family is tired and perishing. Oh God, may God grant us the right to coordinate an exit out of Gaza.” One day later, Israel launched a deadly assault on Rafah after issuing evacuation orders, triggering an exodus of 1.4 million citizens. Ahmed and his family were among them. Recent satellite images show the city of Rafah razed by bombs and bulldozers.
By June 2, Ahmed and his family had headed north again. “My family and I are fine because I live in the centre of Gaza, in Deir al-Balah. I traded a house and live there but I do not work and the financial situation is bad.” Ahmed and his family were hungry and asked for money to be transferred to his bank account to buy expensive food.
I wrote to Ahmed ahead of a community solidarity rally I was due to speak at in central Victoria, asking if he had anything he would like the audience to hear.
He replied on August 23: “You can talk about moving from place to another place. For me, I have moved eight times. Living in tents in the high temperatures, and the winter is coming for the second time. Two million people are trapped in less than a quarter of the space. There is no electricity or water or medicine … Thank you for always missing me. Thank you very much for standing beside me in these difficult days.”
Ahmed’s location of Deir al-Balah was one of the only remaining areas in Gaza with essential infrastructure and warehouses of aid supplies, and the heart of the so-called “humanitarian zone” where civilians could take shelter and Israeli troops had not previously entered.
On that day in August and in the days following, Deir al-Balah came under extensive Israeli bombardment, cutting communities off from vital aid, destroying warehouses, shelters and homes, and pushing out more than 100,000 people in less than two days, with nowhere left to go. Dozens were killed.
For weeks, WhatsApp told me that the last time Ahmed had checked his messages was on August 24 at 6.30am, Gaza time. My messages were not being received or read. I assumed the worst and checked the death registry multiple times for his name.
On October 4, 41 days after our last correspondence, Ahmed reappeared on WhatsApp. His phone had broken during the Deir al-Balah raids.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine, my friend. I’m now living in the Zawaida area with my family.”
The messages have now gone dark again.
