‘My journey to get aid in Gaza was like Squid Game’

Editor’s note: The following personal account of Yousef al-Ajouri, 40, was told to Palestinian journalist and MEE contributor Ahmed Dremly in Gaza City. It has been edited for brevity and clarity.

My children cry all the time because of how hungry they are. They want bread, rice – anything to eat. 

Not long ago, I had stockpiles of flour and other food supplies. It’s all run out. 

We now rely on meals distributed by charity kitchens, usually lentils. But it’s not enough to satisfy the hunger of my children. 

I live with my wife, seven children, and my mother and father in a tent in al-Saraya, near the middle of Gaza City. 

Our home in Jabalia refugee camp was completely destroyed during the Israeli army’s invasion of northern Gaza in October 2023. 

Before the war, I was a taxi driver. But due to shortages in fuel, and the Israeli blockade, I had to stop working. 

I hadn’t gone to receive aid packages at all since the war started, but the hunger situation is unbearable now.  

So I decided I would go to the American-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation aid distribution centre on Salah al-Din Road, near the Netzarim corridor. 

I heard that it’s dangerous and people were getting killed and injured, but I made the decision to go anyway.

Someone told me that if you go once every seven days, you might get enough supplies to feed your family for that week. 

Dark and deadly route

It was around 9pm on 18 June when I heard men in the next tent preparing to head out to the aid centre. 

I told my neighbour in the next tent, Khalil Hallas, aged 35, that I wanted to join. 

Khalil told me to get ready by wearing loose clothes, so that I could run and be agile. 

He said to bring a bag or sack for carrying canned and packaged goods. Due to overcrowding, no one was able to carry the boxes the aid came in. 

My wife Asma, 36, and my daughter Duaa, 13, encouraged me to make the journey. 

They’d seen in the news that women were going to get aid too, and wanted to join me. I told them it was too dangerous. 

I saw at least six other martyrs lying on the ground

I set off with five other men from my camp, including an engineer and a teacher. For some of us, it was the first time making the trip. 

We rode in a tuk-tuk – the only means of transport in southern Gaza, along with donkey and horse-drawn carts – with a total of 17 passengers. It included children aged 10 and 12. 

A young man in the vehicle, who had made the trip before, told us not to take the official route designated by the Israeli army. He said it was too crowded and we wouldn’t receive any aid. 

He advised us to take an alternative route not far from the official path. 

The tuk-tuk dropped us off in Nuseirat, in central Gaza, and from there we walked around a kilometre towards Salah al-Din Road. 

The journey was extremely difficult – and dark. We couldn’t use any flashlights, or else we would attract the attention of Israeli snipers or military vehicles. 

There were some exposed, open areas, which we crossed by crawling across the ground.

As I crawled, I looked over, and to my surprise, saw several women and elderly people taking the same treacherous route as us. 

At one point, there was a barrage of live gunfire all around me. We hid behind a destroyed building.

Anyone who moved or made a noticeable motion was immediately shot by snipers.

Next to me was a tall, light-haired young man using the flashlight on his phone to guide him. 

The others yelled at him to turn it off. Seconds later, he was shot. 

He collapsed to the ground and lay there bleeding, but no one could help or move him. He died within minutes.

Some nearby men eventually covered the man’s body with the empty bag he had brought to fill up with canned goods. I saw at least six other martyrs lying on the ground. 

I also saw wounded people walking back in the opposite direction. One man was bleeding after falling and injuring his hand in the rough terrain. 

I fell a few times too. I was terrified, but there was no turning back. I’d already passed the most dangerous areas, and now the aid centre was within sight. 

We were all afraid. But we were there to feed our hungry children. 

Fighting for food

It was coming up to 2am, which is when I was told access to the aid centre is granted. 

Sure enough, moments later, a large green light lit up the centre in the distance, signalling that it was open. 

People started running towards it from every direction. I ran as fast as I could. 

I was shocked by the massive crowd. I’d risked my life to get closer to the front, and yet, thousands had somehow arrived before me.

I started questioning how they got there. 

Were they working with the military? Were they collaborators, allowed to reach the aid first and take whatever they wanted? Or had they simply taken the same, if not even greater, risks that we had?

I tried to push forward, but I couldn’t. The centre was no longer visible because of the size of the crowds.

People were pushing and shoving, but I decided I had to make it through – for my children. I took my shoes off, put them in my bag, and began forcing my way through. 

There were people on top of me, and I was on top of others.

I noticed a girl being suffocated under the feet of the crowds. I grabbed her hand and pushed her out. 

I started feeling around for the aid boxes and grabbed a bag that felt like rice. But just as I did, someone else snatched it from my hands. 

Some begged others to share. But no one could afford to give up what they managed to get 

I tried to hold on, but he threatened to stab me with his knife. Most people there were carrying knives, either to defend themselves or to steal from others.

Eventually, I managed to grab four cans of beans, a kilogram of bulgur, and half a kilogram of pasta.

Within moments, the boxes were empty. Most of the people there, including women, children and the elderly, got nothing.

Some begged others to share. But no one could afford to give up what they managed to get. 

Even the empty cartons and wooden pallets were taken, to be used as firewood for cooking.

Those who got nothing started picking up spilled flour and grains from the ground, trying to salvage what had fallen during the chaos.

Soldiers watched and laughed

I turned my head and saw soldiers, maybe 10 or 20 metres away. 

They were talking to each other, using their phones, and filming us. Some were aiming weapons at us.

I remembered a scene from the South Korean TV show Squid Game, in which killing was entertainment – a game. 

We were being killed not only by their weapons but also by hunger and humiliation, while they watched us and laughed. 

I started wondering: were they still filming us? Were they watching this madness, seeing how some people overpowered others, while the weakest got nothing?

We left the area just as the boxes had emptied. 

Minutes later, red smoke grenades were thrown into the air. Someone told me that it was the signal to evacuate the area. After that, heavy gunfire began.

Me, Khalil and a few others headed to al-Awda Hospital in Nuseirat because our friend Wael had injured his hand during the journey.

I was shocked by what I saw at the hospital. There were at least 35 martyrs lying dead on the ground in one of the rooms.

A doctor told me they had all been brought in that same day. They were each shot in the head or chest while queuing near the aid centre. 

Their families were waiting for them to come home with food and ingredients. Now, they were corpses. 

I started to break down, thinking about these families. I thought to myself: why are we being forced to die just to feed our children?

At that moment, I decided that I would never journey to those places again.

A slow death

We walked back in silence, and I arrived home at around 7:30am on Thursday morning. 

My wife and children were waiting for me, hoping that I was safe and alive, and that I’d brought back food. 

They were upset when they saw I’d returned with barely anything.

It was the hardest day of my life. I’ve never felt humiliation like I did that day.

I hope food can get through soon and be distributed in a respectful way, without humiliation and killing. The current system is chaotic and deadly. 

I don’t even care if the war keeps going – what matters is that food gets through

There’s no justice in it. Most end up with nothing, because there’s no organised system and there’s too little aid for too many people.

I’m certain Israel wants this chaos to continue. They claim this method is best because, otherwise, Hamas takes the aid. 

But I’m not Hamas, and many, many others aren’t either. Why should we suffer? Why should we be denied aid unless we risk our lives to get it?

At this point, I don’t even care if the war keeps going – what matters is that food gets through, so we can eat.

My son, Yousef, is three years old. He wakes up crying, saying he wants to eat. We have nothing to give him. He keeps crying until he gets tired and falls silent.

I eat one meal a day, or sometimes nothing at all, so the children can eat.

This isn’t life. This is a slow death.