Maysa’s neighbor visited her in the tent they had set up on the beach of Khan Younis. As they sat together, Maysa let down her long, soft hair and gave her neighbor a meaningful look. Although no words were exchanged, her neighbor understood what Maysa meant.
The neighbor pulled out a pair of scissors hidden in her worn leather bag and began cutting Maysa's hair. Maysa discreetly wiped away a tear.
When she was finished, Maysa looked toward her daughter and remained silent. The neighbor then cut the child’s hair, trimming it until it was as short as a boy’s. Breaking the silence, the neighbor pointed out that the child had a lice infestation.
"It was a wise choice to cut your hair and your daughter’s hair,” the neighbor said, trying to console Maysa. "I have even cut my own hair, and many others around us while we are in this displacement camp,” she added.
Maysa glanced around after she had properly adjusted her headscarf. She noticed her baby, only a few months old, stirring in his sleep. She had managed to get him to sleep less than half an hour earlier, but she knew his rest would be brief because strange, unfamiliar insects were buzzing around the tent and biting him. Maysa had no way to protect him. These insects had become an unwelcome presence, invading the already overcrowded displacement tents.
The tents were being divided and named to facilitate the delivery of aid and to obtain somewhat accurate statistics on the number of displaced people in each area.
These groupings often happened based on kinship, neighborhood connections, and the timing of displacement from previous locations. Some had fled from eastern Khan Younis villages, others from Rafah City, while those who had been displaced for a long time had escaped from Gaza City and northern regions when the war began.
Maysa considered the ways she could bathe her baby, hoping to alleviate at least some of his discomfort, but she quickly abandoned the idea. Where she was, there were no bathing products available — no soap, shampoo, or any other sanitary supplies. She shook her head as if to dismiss the thought.
Maysa’s baby sobbed — his skin had turned red and was covered in terrifying pus-filled pimples. His crying grew louder, and when she visited the nearby field clinic, set up hastily near their camp with support from a humanitarian organization, she learned that medications, creams, and ointments to help with his condition were unavailable.
The nurse, exhausted and malnourished, said, "The only option you have is to take him to the sea; the salty seawater is the only solution for treating these skin conditions."
However, Maysa did not go to the sea. She carried her baby back to the tent, thought for a moment, then leaned her head against the wooden tent post. Tears welled up in her eyes as she remembered the bathroom of her home, which she had fled and which was later bombed by the IOF.
It had a special shelf for all types of personal hygiene products, including shampoo, body wash, and body lotions. She took a deep breath as if trying to recall the scent of her favorite bath liquid that her husband liked and asked her not to change. As she inhaled, the smell of sweat from her clothes filled the air, and she couldn’t hold back her tears. She kicked a worn-out pillow, sending it to the entrance of the tent.
She decided to bathe her crying baby with the dirty water that her husband heated in front of the tent over a fire made from paper and cardboard. She hoped to give her son some relief, even if it was for a short while.
Each night, while Maysa cried as she heard the distant sound of bombings, she would clutch her children close and gently caress her daughter’s nearly bald head. Even after cutting her daughter’s hair short to combat lice, the pests continued to multiply, adding a new burden to Maysa’s daily routine.
For hours every day, Maysa carefully inspected her daughter’s hair, picking out the lice between her thumb and forefinger, and flicking it into the nearby fire. She had been unable to obtain any shampoo or lice treatment from the medical clinic, with the constant response being that no medicines or cleaning products had entered Gaza due to Israel’s ongoing war and blockade for the past 10 months. (Editor’s Note: This testimony was written in August 2024)
"10 months," Maysa murmured to herself as she gazed around the tent. She looks at her cracked hands and at the heels of her feet, disgustingly chapped that blood was oozing and forming scabs. e. Most of her days consisted of sitting on rough sand and walking long distances to fetch water, her heels constantly scraping against filth, gravel, and remnants of fires. The only protection for her feet, after her only pair of shoes had completely fallen apart, was a pair of ill-fitting house slippers bought from a market at a price far above what they would have been on normal days.
"Normal days," she repeated, shaking her head in mockery and sorrow. "I wish those normal days had stayed." She remembered her old mirror, adorned with perfumes, creams, and makeup. They were not expensive, but these items made her feel feminine. Now, the only smell she came across was sweat and wood smoke, and the only hygiene she could manage was washing her face and body with water.
Maysa, who is 28 years old, bit her lower lip until it nearly bled, reflecting on the harshness of life in the tents. It was especially tough for women like her, trying to stay strong for their children and husbands. Deep down, she admitted to herself that she felt weak and unable to continue. She had lost even the will to maintain the facade of strength.
For her, hygiene issues went beyond just baths and showers. There were the pains she experienced during her menstrual cycle, caused by using poor-quality contraceptives. She also remembered how she could never find even a moment of privacy to remove the excess hair on her legs. This left her too embarrassed to even extend her legs in front of her husband.
For Maysa, life in the tents was a form of hell, especially for women. It stripped away any humanity and femininity. Women, like men, were reduced to machines, endlessly searching for water, gathering firewood, baking bread, and scrounging for food.
She scratched and shook her head, expecting to feel her braid sway against her back. But she remembered that her once-loved hair, which she had taken such care of, had been cut short.
Even though it was only a few centimeters long now she could no longer clean or wash it properly. Overcome with despair, she stared at the sky, her nostrils filled with the scent of death, and reminisced about her old home. But, even her short reverie was disturbed. Her husband urged her to hurry and prepare the lentils for the day’s sole meal — another repeat of every day.
