‘Don’t Leave Me’: Survivor Recounts Lebanon Boat Sinking

Jihad Michlawi, 31, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press at his home in the northern Beirut suburb of Burj Hammoud, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 27, 2022. (AP)
Jihad Michlawi, 31, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press at his home in the northern Beirut suburb of Burj Hammoud, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 27, 2022. (AP)
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‘Don’t Leave Me’: Survivor Recounts Lebanon Boat Sinking

Jihad Michlawi, 31, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press at his home in the northern Beirut suburb of Burj Hammoud, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 27, 2022. (AP)
Jihad Michlawi, 31, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press at his home in the northern Beirut suburb of Burj Hammoud, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 27, 2022. (AP)

Jihad Michlawi, 31, has struggled to makes ends meet as a chef in crisis-hit Beirut. The Palestinian had never considered taking a perilous journey across the Mediterranean Sea to Europe until friends who successfully did so convinced him.

Now, he's one of dozens of survivors from a capsized migrant boat that left Tripoli, Lebanon last week heading toward Italy carrying some 150 Lebanese, Syrians and Palestinians.

“Some people who arrived told me that life in a European displacement camp was better than life in central Beirut, and that even the food was better,” Michlawi told The Associated Press on Tuesday.

The crowded boat capsized last Wednesday off the coast of Tartus, Syria just over a day after departing Lebanon. At least 94 people were killed, among them at least 24 children. Twenty people survived and the rest remain missing.

The tragic incident in the Mediterranean Sea was the deadliest in the last two years as a surging number of Lebanese, Syrians and Palestinians have tried to flee cash-strapped Lebanon to Europe to find jobs and stability. The UN High Commissioner for Refugees says risky sea migration attempts from Lebanon over the past year have surged by 73%.

Lebanon's economy has spiraled for a third year, with three-quarters of the population plunged into poverty and the Lebanese pound losing 90% of its value against the dollar.

Michlawi said he spent thousands of dollars he gathered to put his life in the hands of a smuggler, whom he describes as a “monster.” The Lebanese military has since arrested the smuggler.

Michlawi left the Lebanese capital for Tripoli at night, and a car with tinted windows drove him and five others to an orange grove, where he and dozens of others were crammed into pickup trucks covered with a tarp.

After reaching the coast and seeing the small boat that would carry them, many began to have second thoughts. “At this point we just thought we might as well go since we got there, but we probably should have considered the danger we put ourselves in,” he said.

The boat's engine began stalling intermittently, but when it completely stopped the following day, the tide started rocking the crowded vessel, as the anxious passengers began to panic, Michlawi said.

The 31-year-old and the others tried to move around the boat to keep it from tilting. The large waves knocked Michlawi into the wall and onto the floor several times. Some of the glass that broke pierced his left foot.

Then, a large wave knocked dozens of people off the boat, killing them. Michlawi recalled seeing the body of an infant “no more than one or two months old.” At that point, he and the others decided they ought to risk swimming for hours to get to shore.

Michlawi couldn't hold back his tears after recounting his unsuccessful attempt to save a 22-year-old Syrian named Ayman Kabbani who struggled to swim.

“He held me while he tried to swim with me, and whenever he would be tired, I would hold him and try to swim with one hand,” Michlawi said. “With all the salt water in our eyes and the heat of the sun, we could barely see.”

The young Syrian tried to boost Michlawi's morale, promising to treat him to lunch, buy new clothes, and get him a new phone with the money he has left once they reach Tripoli. But the Palestinian struggled to keep going.

Kabbani tried to swim on his own but couldn't keep up with Michlawi. “I heard him calling for me, but I would turn around and not see him,” Michlawi said. “At this point, I came to terms with the fact I was going to die and meet my maker, but then I saw the image of my father.”

Michlawi miraculously reached the coast of Tartus, Syria, where an elderly woman and man saw him. “I screamed, ‘please don’t leave me' and fell on the sand,” he said. “She gave me water, and I heard the man next to her say I was coughing blood, and then I passed out and woke up at the hospital in Tartus." He woke up covered in gashes and bruises.

Although safely back in Lebanon, Michlawi now faces an additional hurdle as he tries to find work because he is Palestinian.

Lebanon hosts 192,000 Palestinian refugees who cannot legally work in dozens of professions or own property. According to UNICEF, they are “effectively excluded from enjoying most civil and socio-economic rights” in Lebanon, where many live under appalling conditions in refugee camps that today resemble urban slums.

Several of Michlawi's family members hold college degrees but must work other jobs for far less money, including a cousin with a degree in mechanical engineering who works as a bus driver.

Despite this, he says he wouldn’t try to migrate by sea again.

“We’re not asking for mansions or to become generals or ministers in the government,” Michlawi said. “We just want our basic rights as Palestinian people to sustain ourselves — that is all.”

For now, he's trying to heal.

Michlawi says he hasn't slept for days and is still haunted by the “voices of the children screaming” in his head. He struggles to eat and avoids being anywhere near the coast.

“I used to love the sea, but now I avoid it,” he said. "I don't even want to have a coffee at the beach anymore.”



To Get Their Own Cash, People in Gaza Must Pay Middlemen a 40% Cut

A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)
A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)
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To Get Their Own Cash, People in Gaza Must Pay Middlemen a 40% Cut

A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)
A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)

Cash is the lifeblood of the Gaza Strip’s shattered economy, and like all other necessities in this war-torn territory — food, fuel, medicine — it is in extremely short supply.

With nearly every bank branch and ATM inoperable, people have become reliant on an unrestrained network of powerful cash brokers to get money for daily expenses and commissions on those transactions have soared to about 40%.

"The people are crying blood because of this," said Ayman al-Dahdouh, a school director living in Gaza City. "It’s suffocating us, starving us."

At a time of surging inflation, high unemployment and dwindling savings, the scarcity of cash has magnified the financial squeeze on families — some of whom have begun to sell their possessions to buy essential goods.

The cash that is available has even lost some of its luster. Palestinians use the Israeli currency, the shekel, for most transactions. Yet with Israel no longer resupplying the territory with newly printed bank notes, merchants are increasingly reluctant to accept frayed bills.

Gaza’s punishing cash crunch has several root causes, experts say.

To curtail Hamas’ ability to purchase weapons and pay its fighters, Israel stopped allowing cash to enter Gaza at the start of the war. Around the same time, many wealthy families in Gaza withdrew their money from banks and then fled the territory. And rising fears about Gaza’s financial system prompted foreign businesses selling goods into the territory to demand cash payments.

As Gaza’s money supply dwindled and civilians’ desperation mounted, cash brokers' commissions — around 5% at the start of the war — skyrocketed.

Someone needing cash transfers money electronically to a broker and moments later is handed a fraction of that amount in bills. Many brokers openly advertise their services, while others are more secretive. Some grocers and retailers have also begun exchanging cash for their customers.

"If I need $60, I need to transfer $100," said Mohammed Basheer al-Farra, who lives in southern Gaza after being displaced from Khan Younis. "This is the only way we can buy essentials, like flour and sugar. We lose nearly half of our money just to be able to spend it."

In 2024, inflation in Gaza surged by 230%, according to the World Bank. It dropped slightly during the ceasefire that began in January, only to shoot up again after Israel backed out of the truce in March.

Cash touches every aspect of life in Gaza

About 80% of people in Gaza were unemployed at the end of 2024, according to the World Bank, and the figure is likely higher now. Those with jobs are mostly paid by direct deposits into their bank accounts.

But "when you want to buy vegetables, food, water, medication -- if you want to take transportation, or you need a blanket, or anything — you must use cash," al-Dahdouh said.

Shahid Ajjour’s family has been living off of savings for two years after the pharmacy and another business they owned were ruined by the war.

"We had to sell everything just to get cash," said Ajjour, who sold her gold to buy flour and canned beans. The family of eight spends the equivalent of $12 every two days on flour; before the war, that cost less than $4.

Sugar is very expensive, costing the equivalent of $80-$100 per kilogram (2.2 pounds), multiple people said; before the war, that cost less than $2.

Gasoline is about $25 a liter, or roughly $95 a gallon, when paying the lower, cash price.

Bills are worn and unusable

The bills in Gaza are tattered after 21 months of war.

Money is so fragile, it feels as if it is going to melt in your hands, said Mohammed al-Awini, who lives in a tent camp in southern Gaza.

Small business owners said they were under pressure to ask customers for undamaged cash because their suppliers demand pristine bills from them.

Thaeir Suhwayl, a flour merchant in Deir al-Balah, said his suppliers recently demanded he pay them only with brand new 200-shekel ($60) bank notes, which he said are rare. Most civilians pay him with 20-shekel ($6) notes that are often in poor condition.

On a recent visit to the market, Ajjour transferred the shekel equivalent of around $100 to a cash broker and received around $50 in return. But when she tried to buy some household supplies from a merchant, she was turned away because the bills weren’t in good condition.

"So the worth of your $50 is zero in the end," she said.

This problem has given rise to a new business in Gaza: money repair. It costs between 3 and 10 shekels ($1-$3) to mend old bank notes. But even cash repaired with tape or other means is sometimes rejected.

People are at the mercy of cash brokers

After most of the banks closed in the early days of the war, those with large reserves of cash suddenly had immense power.

"People are at their mercy," said Mahmoud Aqel, who has been displaced from his home in southern Gaza. "No one can stop them."

The war makes it impossible to regulate market prices and exchange rates, said Dalia Alazzeh, an expert in finance and accounting at the University of the West of Scotland. "Nobody can physically monitor what’s happening," Alazzeh said.

A year ago, the Palestine Monetary Authority, the equivalent of a central bank for Gaza and the West Bank, sought to ease the crisis by introducing a digital payment system known as Iburaq. It attracted half a million users, or a quarter of the population, according to the World Bank, but was ultimately undermined by merchants insisting on cash.

Israel sought to ramp up financial pressure on Hamas earlier this year by tightening the distribution of humanitarian aid, which it said was routinely siphoned off by militants and then resold.

Experts said it is unclear if the cash brokers’ activities benefit Hamas, as some Israeli analysts claim.

The war has made it more difficult to determine who is behind all sorts of economic activity in the territory, said Omar Shabaan, director of Palthink for Strategic Studies, a Gaza-based think tank.

"It's a dark place now. You don't know who is bringing cigarettes into Gaza," he said, giving just one example. "It's like a mafia."

These same deep-pocketed traders are likely the ones running cash brokerages, and selling basic foodstuffs, he said. "They benefit by imposing these commissions," he said.

Once families run out of cash, they are forced to turn to humanitarian aid.

Al-Farra said that is what prompted him to begin seeking food at an aid distribution center, where it is common for Palestinians to jostle over one other for sacks of flour and boxes of pasta.

"This is the only way I can feed my family," he said.