Freezing in Makeshift Tents, Gazans Burn Plastic to Survive 

A displaced Palestinian bakes flatbread on a makeshift stove inside his tent at a camp west of Rafah near the Egyptian border on January 14, 2024, as the ongoing war between Israel and the militant Hamas group enters its 100th day. (AFP)
A displaced Palestinian bakes flatbread on a makeshift stove inside his tent at a camp west of Rafah near the Egyptian border on January 14, 2024, as the ongoing war between Israel and the militant Hamas group enters its 100th day. (AFP)
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Freezing in Makeshift Tents, Gazans Burn Plastic to Survive 

A displaced Palestinian bakes flatbread on a makeshift stove inside his tent at a camp west of Rafah near the Egyptian border on January 14, 2024, as the ongoing war between Israel and the militant Hamas group enters its 100th day. (AFP)
A displaced Palestinian bakes flatbread on a makeshift stove inside his tent at a camp west of Rafah near the Egyptian border on January 14, 2024, as the ongoing war between Israel and the militant Hamas group enters its 100th day. (AFP)

In a makeshift tent of cloth and plastic, Ismail Nabhan huddled by a fire with his children and grandchildren as his family, displaced by the war in Gaza, struggled to stay warm.

"Two days ago there were strong winds, we tried all night to fasten the nylon. We're living in a desert and the sea is in front of us -- the cold has multiplied," said the 60-year-old, who has fled his home in central Gaza.

Thousands of tents have been erected by some of the 1.9 million people the United Nations estimates have been internally displaced in the Gaza Strip since the war erupted on October 7.

The unprecedented attack from Gaza by Hamas militants that day resulted in about 1,140 deaths, most of them civilians, in southern Israel, according to an AFP tally based on official figures, and triggered a relentless Israeli bombardment and ground offensive.

Nabhan and his family have pitched their tent at a precarious spot in a southwestern corner of Rafah, overlooking the Egyptian border and a few hundred meters (yards) from the Mediterranean Sea.

There are 28 people crammed into the flimsy shelter and, despite the risk from the flames and fumes, they keep a fire going inside as their only means of staying warm.

Even the fuel they use is improvised and harmful, but the family have little choice.

"The smoke we inhale from burning plastic burns our lungs," said Nabhan's wife, Raidah Awad, as their grandson coughed.

Awad asked her son to get firewood but lamented that it would take four days to dry out after recent heavy winter rain.

"The children are sick from the smell and the cold. They don't stop coughing and having colds, their clothes aren't thick enough to warm them up," said the 50-year-old Awad.

One blanket is shared between three people, she added. "The situation's tragic."

The health ministry in the Hamas-run territory says at least 24,100 Gazans have been killed in the war.

Haneen Adwan, who was forced to flee from central Nuseirat refugee camp due to heavy Israeli bombardment, said she and her family were struggling in the winter weather.

"At night, I feel like we're going to die from the cold," said the 31-year-old, who has six children.

Adwan piled three thin mattresses on top of one another as a barrier from the cold ground.

Firewood, she said, was unaffordable, so like Nabhan and his family, she had turned to burning waste.

"We light the fire with plastic, (and) choke on the fumes," she said.

Adwan's 14-year-old son's hands have been blackened by the constant search to scavenge enough plastic to keep the family warm.

The teenager explained how he worked the sewer at the border, digging up plastic buried in the sand and cutting it up with a knife.

"My brothers are dying from the cold at night. We have to light something or we'll freeze," he said.

The UN humanitarian agency said on Monday that the makeshift shelters in which many Gazans now live "are inadequate to withstand current weather conditions," while many sites had been flooded by heavy rain.

Nearby, Khaled Faraj Allah was baking bread in the corner of his tent and passing pieces to his son.

His six children, one of whom has special needs, shared three mattresses.

"After two in the morning, it's not possible for anyone to sleep because of the extreme cold," said Faraj Allah, who fled his home east of Gaza City.

"Even if you lay out a thousand blankets, the ground is cold and the earth transfers the damp and cold," added the 36-year-old.

Faraj Allah said his child with special needs lacked regular medication and had stopped laughing or interacting with the family.

"If there's heavy rain, people will die from the cold, and if the Israelis storm this area what can I do? I'll flee over there for my kids," he said, pointing to the Egyptian border.



War Piles Yet More Trauma on Lebanon's Exhausted People

'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
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War Piles Yet More Trauma on Lebanon's Exhausted People

'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP

Ask a Lebanese person how they are, and you're likely to be met with a heavy pause or a pained smile. Years of crisis have drained them, and now Israeli air strikes are pushing many to breaking point.

Cartoonist Bernard Hage, who draws under the name Art of Boo, summed it up a few weeks ago with a layer cake.

These layers are "Financial Collapse", "Pandemic", the 2020 "Beirut Port Explosion", "Political Deadlock" and "Mass Depression".

"War" is now the cherry on top.

Carine Nakhle, a supervisor at suicide helpline Embrace, says the trauma is never-ending.

"The Lebanese population is not OK," she said, AFP reported.

The hotline's some 120 operators take shifts around the clock all week to field calls from people in distress.

Calls have increased to some 50 a day since Israel increased its airstrikes against Lebanon on September 23.

The callers are "people who are in shock, people who are panicking", Nakhle said.

"Many of them have been calling us from areas where they are being bombed or from shelters."

Israel's bombardment of Lebanon, mostly in the south and in Beirut's southern suburbs, has killed more than 1,100 people and displaced upwards of a million in less than two weeks.

Tens of thousands have found refuge in central Beirut, whose streets now throng with homeless people and where the traffic is even more swollen than usual.

- 'Huge injustice' -

Every night, airstrikes on the southern suburbs force people to flee their homes, as huge blasts rattle windows and spew clouds of debris skywards.

Ringing out across Beirut, the explosions awaken terrible memories: of the massive 2020 Beirut port blast that decimated large parts of the city; of the last war between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006; and of the 1975-1990 civil war.

This latest affliction comes on the back of years of the worst financial crisis in Lebanon's history that has plunged much of its middle class into poverty.

Rita Barotta, 45, lives near the relatively quiet Christian-majority town of Jounieh north of Beirut.

She says she cannot hear the airstrikes, but also that she no longer has the words "to describe what is happening" to Lebanon.

"I no longer know what being me 15 days ago looked like," said the university lecturer in communications, who has thrown herself into helping the displaced.

"Eating, sleeping, looking after my plants -- none of that's left. I'm another me. The only thing that exists now for me is how I can help."

Networking on her phone, Barotta spends her days trying to find shelter or medicine for those in need.

"If I stop for even five minutes, I feel totally empty," she said.

Barotta almost lost her mother in the Beirut port explosion, and says that keeping busy is the only way for her not to feel "overwhelmed and petrified".

"What is happening today is not just a new trauma, it's a sense of huge injustice. Why are we being put through all this?"

- 'Just can't anymore' -

A 2022 study before the war by Lebanese non-governmental organization IDRAAC found that at least a third of Lebanese battled with mental health problems.

Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital, said all Lebanese were struggling in one way or another.

"Lebanese have a great capacity for resilience," he said, citing support from family, community and religion.

"But there is this accumulation of stress that is making the glass overflow."

"For years, we have been drawing on our physical, psychological and financial resources. People just can't anymore," he said.

He said he worries because some people who should be hospitalized cannot afford it, and others are relapsing "because they can no longer take a hit".

Many more people were relying on sleeping pills.

"People want to sleep," he said, and swallowing pills is easier when you have neither the time nor the money to be treated.

Nakhle, from Embrace, said many people sought help from non-governmental organizations as they could not afford the $100 consultation fee for a therapist at a private clinic.

At the charity's health centre, the waiting list for an appointment is four to five months long.