In Gaza, displacement and chronic illness are a slow-burning crisis

On the very first days of Gaza’s summer season this year, temperatures soared above 100 degrees. 

But I no longer have a home where I can stay cool. 

Like many other Palestinians displaced due to the genocide, I live in a plastic tent. The stifling heat inside the tent makes it feel as if my body is burning, and there is the constant risk that my most precious possession will spoil: my insulin. 

Since my Type 1 diabetes diagnosis more than a decade ago, my life has been measured in units and my food has been measured in grams. Before the war, diabetes was a battle of numbers and routine carbohydrate calculations that I could control. But today, as this crushing war has destroyed human beings and toppled our homes, obtaining vials of this life-saving liquid is a daily battle. It’s exhausting, but I must fight for my medication because surrendering could cost me my life. 

During these brutal summer months in Gaza, my fear is not just airstrikes, but waking up to find that the blazing heat in my tent has spoiled my humble supply of insulin. Effectively, this would be a death sentence. 

Life slipping through your fingers 

Since the start of the genocide, Gaza has experienced an insulin crisis, with Israel’s blockade and bombardment making conditions nearly impossible for people with chronic illnesses such as diabetes. Samer Badwan, an endocrinologist working at a medical center in southern Gaza, told The New Arab last year there are more than 60,000 diabetic patients in the Gaza Strip who are “at risk of death or coma due to a lack of insulin and electricity.” Children have died due to lack of insulin, and adults have lost limbs or otherwise become gravely ill, the publication reported.  

I begin each morning with the same gnawing fear: Did my insulin make it through the night? 

Each day that I wake up to the burning heat of my tent and the sting of insects, I can’t even think of food or water—though I am hungry and thirsty. I first force myself to check my medication in the primitive cooler I’ve devised from a clay pot that my grandfather owned for more than 60 years. In Gaza, electricity is now a thing of the past. Many of us have not had power since November 2023. Each day our temperature-sensitive medications survive is a miracle. 

Obtaining vials of insulin is also its own feat. Like others in need of medication or medical care, I travel amid the rubble without reliable communications or transportation, with supplies at distribution centers often depleted before many of us even reach the waiting line. 

If you’re lucky enough to obtain insulin, I can’t adequately express what it feels like when the insulin spoils due to the oven-like heat inside tents. It’s like your life is slipping through your fingers. If you are fortunate enough to have an operating pharmacy nearby, it is prohibitively expensive to replace medication, and most Gazans cannot afford necessary medications because they have lost all sources of income.

None of this is normal, but it is what we are subjected to. 

Beyond data 

While the world watches the political maneuvering of Israel and the U.S. who’ve now expanded their war into Iran, or follows the movements of repeated ceasefire negotiations, there are thousands like me: people with chronic illnesses fighting hidden battles for every drop of medicine that helps keep them alive. 

Displacement coupled with a chronic illness is a slow-burning crisis and a humanitarian disaster. When healthcare is also stripped down to the most primitive conditions, even a single missed dose or skyrocketing blood sugar amid famine can ultimately signal the beginning of the end. This is the silent frontline in Gaza, and this daily, life-threatening battle rarely makes international headlines. 

A person’s nationality or political status should not dictate whether they get the medicine they need to stay alive.

Since these conditions first began in October 2023, we’ve heard a lot about “health justice,” which focuses on the social determinants of health and equal access to resources. This academic concept is often discussed in university halls, but for me, health justice is the physical and material difference between whether I wake up tomorrow or die in my tent.

Adapting to Type 1 diabetes while also trying to survive a genocide feels like a guessing game about whether I will live or die. While living under the threat of bombardment from Israel, I also cannot find essential sugar testing strips, and any remaining measuring devices often malfunction due to dust and heat. There is little hope of replacing these otherwise basic tools because of the blockade, shortages, and high prices.

I still clearly remember Aug. 15, when the heat inside my tent felt like hell and my body suddenly began to shake uncontrollably, a terrifying sign telling me that the sugar in my blood was dropping to severely low levels. In normal times, a cup of juice or a glucose tablet would cure me in minutes. Under blockade, a spoonful of sugar is an impossible luxury. My terrified mother ran around the tents begging for help until a neighbor shared something sweet, saving my life. 

Thousands of patients in Gaza are fighting the realities of their bodies, once a symbiotic relationship of mutual care—we gave our bodies insulin and they effortlessly carried us through our days. Now, it feels like we are at war with our bodies. 

My experience during the genocide has taught me that I am not just a person with diabetes. I am a survivor—and one who has a story to tell. After that terrifying incident in my tent, I promised myself that I would speak up for those who feel they can’t speak for themselves.

I now work with youth teams, documenting our collective pain through storytelling and transforming it into a tool for resilience and resistance. In light of the collapsed healthcare system, the destruction of hospitals, and the continued genocide, advocating for Gazans and making our voices heard has become one of our most powerful tools. Through our stories, we hope to appeal to the conscience of the world, making it clear that we have a basic right to healthcare.

I aim to challenge readers in the United States to look beyond the dry, cold data of health statistics and global news reports. We need to think about what health justice means when even the most basic life essentials are not available. A person’s nationality or political status should not dictate whether they get the medicine they need to stay alive. 

An American teenager in a city can easily check their blood sugar, access insulin pumps, or receive help in an emergency room just by pushing a button or driving to a 24-hour hospital or pharmacy. A teenager in Gaza, on the other hand, has to risk bombardment, walk through destroyed buildings, and brave chaotic aid distribution sites in hopes of finding just one bottle of insulin—medication that might not have even been stored correctly. Health justice is about making sure that teenagers in Gaza and across the world don’t unnecessarily die due to an inability to access the basic medications they need to manage their chronic illness. 

For health justice to become a reality, it must include Gazans. 

No matter the conditions I continue to face, I remain committed to sharing our stories with the world. I will not stop documenting, and I will continue to demand our right to life. I want more for Gazans than to simply survive today. We deserve a future—one that isn’t robbed from us because of a spoiled or missing vial of insulin. 

Editorial Team:
Tina Vasquez, Lead Editor
Lara Witt, Top Editor
Stephanie Harris, Copy Editor