24 Hours in Gaza That I’ll Never Forget

The first time I visited Gaza was on my birthday, back in March 2016. I hadn't told anyone it was my birthday - I'm not big on celebrations - but in true Gaza fashion, the team found out and insisted on celebrating me. I had only just met them, yet they made me feel so welcomed, so loved. That day was my introduction to the warmth and generosity of our Gaza team - something that has stayed with me through every visit since.

Over the years, I've returned many times. Some years twice, some years not at all, depending on life and logistics. Gaza has woven itself into my life in ways I never expected. I've made postpartum trips to Gaza, carrying cumbersome breast pumps and worrying about power outages in my hotel room. I've gratefully exchanged photos of our growing children with colleagues at our partner organizations who I've become friendly with over these many years. And I've memorized Gaza City's layout: the bakery near the office, the hotel by the port, the ice cream shop that always felt like home.

But this latest visit - my first since the war began - was unlike anything I've ever experienced.

Crossing Into Gaza

While there was a lot of waiting for my permit to be approved, when it happened, it was very quick. I received my permit on a Thursday, booked my flight from Washington, DC on Friday, landed Saturday, and crossed into Gaza early Sunday morning. I barely slept the night before, buzzing with anticipation. I couldn't wait to see everyone. I'd thought so much about what it would feel like just to give my colleagues - family now after these last 10 years - a hug.

By 5 a.m., I was on the road to Kerem Shalom, the southernmost crossing where Gaza, Israel, and Egypt all meet. On the drive down, the contrast was jarring. There are lush orchards and quiet kibbutzim on your left and tanks, razed lands and war's remnants on your right. The crossing itself is a tightly coordinated process, with hours of permissions and waiting.

But finally, I was in. As I walked through the buffer zone between the gates leading to Israel and Gaza, I saw my colleague Sami in the distance waiting for me on the other side. We waved our arms furiously at each other, shouting greetings of gratitude and disbelief at seeing one another in person once again. I ran to him as fast as I could while carrying a duffle bag filled to the brim with coffee, chocolates and other special gifts for our team. I was overcome with emotion and we took a selfie to share on our team WhatsApp to let everyone know we had been successfully reunited.

When we started driving toward Khan Younis it was immediately clear that this visit would be different. We drove through the empty landscape on eerily quiet roads leading from Kerem Shalom that were strewn with the remnants of aid packaging that had been looted off of trucks. One of the first buildings I saw was a UN school with a gaping mortar hole through the walls. Schools that once were sanctuaries of learning and safety are now overcrowded ruins draped in laundry drying in the sun.

Anera's Presence and Impact

I visited our Women Can program and reconnected with participants. With new supplies and ovens, they've formed baking teams, preparing pastries for schoolchildren, hospital patients, displaced families, blood donors, and more. The women I visited in their makeshift kitchen were grateful for the project, which has allowed them to support their families during such a difficult time. Many of them told me that because of their income, they were able to rent apartments to put a solid roof over their children's heads.

My colleagues and I followed one of their pastry deliveries to a camp built near the ruins of Atfaluna School for the Deaf. We walked tent to tent, handing out baked goods to eager children and their parents. It was a full-circle moment - from donor support, to implementation, to impact in people's hands.

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Another visit took me to Anera's primary health care center in Mawasi, Khan Younis. I didn't fully grasp just how robust and well-organized our health interventions are until I walked into our clinic. Despite the lack of internet and consistent electricity, the clinic operates smoothly. Everything is hardwired, from the patient intake system to the specialty clinics set up in separate rooms. Patients get a number, are entered into a database, and wait their turn in an orderly, dignified way. It feels like real healthcare, not charity. That care in design ensures people feel seen and respected.

I'm still thinking about my visit to our dermatology clinic. In addition to addressing the many skin diseases like scabies that come without access to clean water and hygiene products, our dermatologist is also hosting laser-scar removal days where he is literally removing the scars of war on women and children. Think about how meaningful this intervention is, to not only meet the health needs of patients in Gaza, but to also address their trauma that isn't visible.

The crossings had been closed to goods for ten days by the time I was in Gaza. In our southern distribution center, one of many warehouses we rent to distribute food and items like tents and medicine, I saw day laborers sorting hygiene supplies being packed into kits. The center is not meant to be full, as aid is distributed quickly once it arrives, and our colleagues were already worrying about the low quantities of supplies in storage. They informed me that we had maybe two weeks of food and a month of medicine left. It pains me now to think about the empty distribution center. The crossings urgently must reopen!

Gaza's Unrecognizable Landscape

Driving north to Gaza City, we went through what's now called the Netzarim Corridor - an eerie stretch of flattened land that used to be a buffer zone. There are no roads left, just sand. The emptiness is haunting.

Everywhere, landmarks I once knew were gone. Buildings pancaked into themselves, slabs of concrete stacked like a crumbling deck of cards. I kept trying to find my bearings, but the geography had shifted. It was disorienting. No photo or video prepares you for the silence of people sitting expressionless on the ruins of what used to be their homes, of children using tilted slabs of concrete as slides. Decorations, lovingly selected and hung on living room and kitchen walls, are now visible from the street in half-demolished buildings. At Shifa Hospital, once the heart of Gaza's emergency care, the wards are unrecognizable. Burned-out ambulances line the entrance. Universities lie in piles. Neighborhoods are simply gone.

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And yet I saw wild poppies and flowers blooming among the ruins. Life pushing forward…

Glimpses of Normalcy

I fasted in solidarity and joined our team for iftar at our Gaza City office, which is still standing and in good condition. Colleagues from the south came up to join us. Someone had secured kebabs made from the little frozen meat still left on the market. There was laughter and teasing - especially about my vegetarianism - and, for a few hours, joy. We were just colleagues and friends sharing a meal.

Afterward, we visited Kazem, my favorite ice cream parlor in Gaza and a tradition during my visits. It had somehow reopened for Ramadan. The windows were replaced, though there were scars from war on the walls. There weren't as many flavors as before, but that didn't matter. Families were out. Children were giggling. The slushy machines were running. The whole shop glowed on the otherwise dark street as a monument to the indomitable spirit of Gaza.

That night, I slept at the office and was joined by my colleague Asmaa who kindly volunteered to stay with me on mattresses that the team had lovingly set up for us. We stayed up late talking about life, family, hope. At 3:30 a.m., we woke up together for suhoor. I had mentioned the day before how much I love coffee, and to my surprise, Asmaa presented me with a cup, saying "I know how important coffee is to you." Those quiet, sharing moments with Asmaa touched me deeply, and I'm grateful for new friendships borne out of the most extraordinary circumstances.

I was moved by the opportunity to visit my colleague Suad's home. Her building had been raided, every door blasted open, but her apartment stood restored, repainted in the soft pinks and purples she always wears. There is no electricity, so no elevator. She walks up and down five flights of stairs every day carrying potable water and her needs for daily life. But it's her home, and she made it beautiful again.

As we walked together, Suad reached for my hand and said, "I feel myself opening up again. I haven't felt like myself in so long." That moment reminded me that presence matters. Our team doesn't just want to be supported. They want to feel supported. To know the world still sees them.

The Goodbyes

I had thought so much about seeing my colleagues again that I hadn't let myself think about what it would feel like to leave. One by one I said goodbye as our team headed home to their families or back to work. When the moment came - hugging Suad, walking away - I broke. Right there in the street, I started crying. I was heartbroken to leave.

Sami stayed with me through the long, slow process of exiting. We talked about my next visit, Inshallah, that would be longer as there was so much yet to see, more time needed to spend with colleagues and friends. The word inshallah felt so much heavier this time. Looking back, I was only inside Gaza for about 24 hours. But I was present for every single minute. It was one of the most powerful days of my life.

What I Know

Above all, what struck me was how the community sees Anera. We're a trusted last-mile partner. The love I saw for colleagues like Asmaa, Suad and Sami was a testament to our Palestinian staff's amazing work and your solidarity.

Anera's impact is real. It sustains lives. It preserves dignity. It provides a measure of hope. And it's only possible because of people like you.

In a world that often feels overwhelming - where we're told there's nothing we can do, this is something! You are making a tangible difference.

Our team in Gaza has never given up. And we can't either.

Gaza breaks your heart. And then, somehow, it puts it back together again…through a shared meal, a scoop of ice cream and a child's laugh.