Detainees & Prisoners

Collective punishment of Gazans continues: family visits cancelled

Today, the military cancelled family visits to residents of Gaza imprisoned in Israel. Usually, relatives of these residents are allowed to visit them only once every two or three months.

On Wednesday, 12 March 2014, the IDF Spokesperson announced that Kerem Shalom Crossing would be closed, and activity at Erez Crossing restricted to cases that the military defines as humanitarian, following rocket fire from Gaza to communities in southern Israel.

The IDF Spokesperson stated that “a decision to open Kerem Shalom Crossing and restore activity at Erez Crossing to full capacity will be made based on evaluations of the situation and on security considerations.” It is Israel’s duty to protect its borders and residents; however, that does not justify inflicting such harm on all residents of the Gaza Strip who are not involved in the hostilities.

Closing the crossings had a severe impact on electricity supply in the Gaza Strip over the weekend. Israel delayed the transfer of diesel fuel for operating Gaza’s power plant, which has operated only partially since the tunnels on the Egyptian border were closed, for two days. Consequently, the power cuts in the Gaza Strip were extended from 8 to 12 in 24 hours. On 16 March 2014, Kerem Shalom Crossing was reopened and 450,000 liters of diesel fuel were transferred into Gaza, as well as petrol and cooking gas. The fuel was purchased by the power plant with the aid of a Qatar government donation.

B’Tselem calls upon Israel to refrain from collectively punishing the residents of the Gaza Strip.

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No Accountability

Human Rights in the Occupied Territories

The report surveys the broad spectrum of issues regarding the Israeli authorities' human rights record in the West Bank and Gaza Strip over the past year, the 44th year of the Israeli occupation. An interactive version of the report is available online and distributed through social media. The report documents a sharp increase in the number of uninvolved Palestinians killed by the Israeli security forces in the Gaza Strip in 2011. There was also an increase in the number of Israeli civilians killed by Palestinians, compared to 2010.

21 March 2012

סועאד אל-עמור, שלא זכתה לראות את בנה סאמי שנפטר במהלך מאסרו לאחר שנתיים שבהם מנעה ממנה ישראל לבקר אותו. צילום: ח'אלד אל-עזאייזה, בצלם, 23.11.21

The Gaza Strip

Not even a phone call: Israel cutting some 230 Gazan security prisoners off from their families

According to the Palestinian Prisoners’ Club, as of 7 December 2021, Israel is holding some 230 Palestinian residents of the Gaza Strip as security prisoners. About 70 of them are members of Hamas. In early 2020, after the pandemic broke out, Israel canceled family visits for all prisoners. The visits were renewed in mid-June 2020, with the exception of security prisoners ״who are not residents of Israel.” A statement issued by the Israeli Prison Service (IPS) stated that allowing visits to these prisoners will be examined “in the future, subject to opening the border crossings and coordinating with the Red Cross.” Since Palestinians defined as “security prisoners” are barred from talking on the phone with their families, they have no other way to stay in touch with them. In December 2020, HaMoked: Center for the Defence of the Individual filed a petition with Israel’s High Court of Justice (HJC) on behalf of eight human rights organizations, demanding that Palestinian prisoners be allowed to talk on the phone with their families. Consequently, the state allowed every “security” prisoner a single phone call throughout the month of Ramadan. In June 2021, HaMoked contacted the IPS again and demanded that it reinstate visits for prisoners from the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. About a month later, the IPS reinstated family visits for prisoners from the West Bank. The status of prisoners from the Gaza Strip, a few of whom are serving criminal sentences, remains unchanged and their families are still not allowed to visit them. This reality reflects a longstanding Israeli policy. Since 2007, Israel has imposed various restrictions on family visits for prisoners from the Gaza Strip, at times banning them altogether and at others, allowing them only subject to draconian restrictions – including banning children over 16 from visiting their parents in prison. Since 2017, the state has – with HJC approval – barred visits to members of Hamas. The ban on family visits constitutes collective punishment of the prisoners and their families. Israel has attempted to justify the restrictions by citing various security pretexts. However, its claims are baseless and cannot justify the imposition of blanket bans, the isolation of the Gazan prisoners and the great suffering caused to their families, who cannot meet or even talk to their imprisoned loved ones for months or years on end. B’Tselem field researchers Olfat al-Kurd and Khaled al-‘Azayzeh collected testimonies from the relatives of prisoners from the Gaza Strip, who have not been allowed to visit their loved ones for two years: Testimony of Iman Salem (55), wife of prisoner Majdi Salem (48) and mother of their five children: I was born near Ramallah and still have a West Bank ID card. My parents currently live in the area of Bitunya in Ramallah District. In 2014, I visited my parents in Ramallah without my husband and stayed with them for a year, and then Majdi wanted to join us. On 24 August 2015, he tried to leave the Gaza Strip via Erez Crossing. He was detained at the checkpoint and arrested on suspicion of belonging to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. I was shocked, because I hadn’t expected him to be arrested. He was sentenced to nine years in prison, of which he's served six. I stayed in the West Bank for about a year and then went back to Gaza with the children. I applied several times through the Red Cross for permits to visit Majdi, and was rejected every time. In 2017, I was granted a permit for myself, for my daughter Wisal who was 14 at the time, and for my son Mamduh, who was six. When we got to the prison, we asked one of the guards to allow Mamduh to go behind the glass partition and hug his father, and he agreed. It was a very sad visit. I cried when Mamduh hugged his father. It was a very tough sight. That was the only visit. We haven’t been allowed to visit him since and every time, the Red Cross tells us the Israelis have rejected the request. Then the pandemic broke out, and Israel used it as a pretext to completely ban visits to Gazan prisoners. I sent my husband money and clothes through the families of prisoners from the West Bank. My husband was arrested and locked up when our children were small and really needed him. They really need to see him now, too, especially Mamduh. He keeps asking about his father and saying he misses him. Wisal also asks to see her father a lot. We haven’t been allowed to visit him for four years. I miss my husband, and my children miss their father. Even if Israel renews family visits for Gazan prisoners, of all our children, only Mamduh will be able visit his dad because he’s the only one under 16. My heart aches for him. He sees other children with their fathers and cries that he hasn’t been allowed to grow up with his father. He says, “ I want to see Dad and hug him.” We don’t have any joy without my husband, even on holidays and special events. The children feel his absence. They really need him by their side. Testimony of Iman ‘Azzam (17), the daughter of prisoner Jum’ah ‘Azzam (53): My dad was arrested on 4 December 2006 and sentenced to 20 years in prison. I was only two years old and don’t remember anything. I was a baby. My little sister Aya, who’s 16 now, was only five months old. Since my dad was arrested, he’s been transferred from one prison to another and is currently in Negev Prison (Ktziot). My mother, Sabah ‘Azzam (48), says that Aya and I went with her to visit him several times. The last visit I remember was when I was 10, and what I remember of it mostly is being frisked by soldiers. I don’t remember what my dad looked like, only the brown uniform he wore. I also remember crying when I saw him. The guards wouldn’t let me go in to hug him, but they did let younger children in. I have three brothers and four sisters who are all older and married. My sister Aya and I also got engaged a few months ago. We haven’t been allowed to visit my dad for more than a decade. When I was little, I went with my mother to a rally outside the Red Cross in Gaza. Nowadays, my brother Fadi (20) regularly attends those rallies. We demand that they allow us to visit my father. My siblings and I have grown up without a father. They took him away from us when we were little. We went through very tough times without him. I need him at every moment. He didn’t attend the weddings of my brothers and sisters: Fadi, Shadi, Yunes, Asmaa and Nidaa. It’s very sad. Even when I got my high school diploma in August, I couldn’t really be happy because I missed Dad. Even at my engagement ceremony a few months ago, I couldn’t really rejoice; I wanted him to be with me. No one can take his place. It’s hardest during the holidays. I see the children in the neighborhood with their fathers, and my dad isn’t here. I only know him from old photographs. Today, I wouldn’t recognize him. He has six years left on his sentence. I hope they pass quickly, and then I can meet him and we can be happy together. My mom has been through these years all alone. It's very hard for her. I see her sitting alone and crying over Dad. She says she's tired and can’t carry on. This is a crime against the prisoners' families. Why are they preventing visits? Testimony of Su’ad al-‘Amur (62), the mother of late prisoner Sami al-‘Amur (39), who died during surgery after not having a family visit for two years: On 1 April 2008, the military raided our home and arrested my martyr son, Sami. He was 26 and was sentenced to 19 years and 11 months in prison. That year my other son, Hamadah (35), was arrested. He was sentenced to 12 and a half years and released a year ago. In the first few years, we were forbidden to visit them after the soldier Gilad Shalit was abducted. All we could do was correspond with them via the Red Cross. After a few years, Israel renewed the visits and in 2013, we visited them for the first time. His father and I went alone because Israel wouldn’t allow their brothers and sisters to visit. At first, my two sons were held in different prisons: Sami in Nafha Prison and Hamadah in Ramon Prison. We’d meet them both at Ramon Prison on the day of the visit. On one visit, I was taken into a room alone and then they brought Hamadah in with his hands and legs tied. I saw him for one minute, shackled. I burst into tears when I saw him like that. A year later my husband ‘Abed, who’s 72 already, stopped visiting because of the long journey and the grueling security check. Since then, I've traveled alone to visit Sami. We waited for hours at Erez Crossing every time, until everyone was inspected. Once, I wasn’t let through the checkpoint. All the other visitors reached the prisons that day, and only I had to go back to Gaza. To this day, I don’t know why. When the pandemic broke out in early 2020 they stopped the visits, supposedly because of the coronavirus. Israel didn’t let us visit for two years. I joined the weekly rallies of the prisoners’ families by the Red Cross offices, demanding the visits be allowed. For two years, I was in contact with families of prisoners from the West Bank. I wired them money every time and asked them to bring Sami clothes and canteen money. In early November 2021, Sami started vomiting and ran a high fever, and was treated in prison. Then he was transferred to Ashkelon Prison. I don’t know why. It never occurred to me that he was seriously ill. On 17 November 2021, Sami passed away while he was undergoing surgery at Soroka Hospital. I learned of my son’s death through the media! It was a terrible shock. We started screaming our heads off, my husband, our children and I. Sami died far away from me after I hadn’t seen him for two years, not to mention his siblings – they hadn’t seen him since his arrest. I’m full of pain over Sami’s death, far away from his father and me, and I cry day and night. My son was a prisoner and died in prison, and now Israel is refusing to give us his body. They won’t let us say goodbye and hold a funeral for him in the Gaza Strip. I complained to the Red Cross and demanded that they help us get Sami’s body. Israel wouldn’t let me see Sami alive, and now they won’t let me see him dead. Testimony of Muhammad Abu ‘Aram (38), a married father of five and the brother of prisoner Ibrahim Abu ‘Aram (47), a father of two: The Israeli military arrested my brother at the Abu Huli Checkpoint, north of Khan Yunis, on 13 March 2003 and sentenced him to 24 years in prison. He was transferred between prisons and is currently at Ramon Prison. At first, my mother and father and his wife (Sanaa, 37) visited him every other week. But after Gilad Shalit was abducted, Israel barred all Gazans from visiting for five years. It was a very tough time for our family. We were worried and hardly knew anything about what was going on with Ibrahim. Every two weeks, one of his brothers or I went to the Red Cross offices in Khan Yunis or in Gaza to ask how Ibrahim was doing and find out if there was any news about the prison visits. In 2013, Israel allowed us to visit Ibrahim. My mother was suffering from several illnesses at the time, but she went with my father to visit him despite her condition. At the end of the visit, my mother got confused on the way to the bus, and the security forces fired next to her. If the prisoners’ families hadn’t intervened and taken her back to the bus, something terrible would probably have happened. It later turned out that my mother has memory loss (Alzheimer's). Since that incident, the occupation authorities have banned her from visiting Ibrahim. My father suffered a stroke and also had to stop visiting. He now uses a wheelchair. It’s been eight years since anyone from the family has visited Ibrahim. I go to the Red Cross offices in Khan Yunis almost every month to apply for a permit for my brothers and me to visit him. Every time, I’m told that Israel refuses to allow the prisoners’ brothers to visit them. We have no choice but to wire money to Ibrahim through the families of West Bank prisoners, and it’s a complicated and exhausting process. Because we haven’t visited him or brought him clothes for eight years, he’s now forced to buy clothes in the prison canteen, and sometimes he gets hand-me-downs from the families of West Bank prisoners. Now, in the winter, we’re especially worried about him. We’re afraid he’ll be cold and know that clothes are very expensive in prison. Because I can’t see Ibrahim or transfer him clothes and money, I always feel I’m a prisoner just like him. Ibrahim’s children, Bilal (20) and Dunia (21), last visited him when they were little and haven’t seen their dad in nine years. Father asks me every day about Ibrahim and his medical condition, and to make it easier on him I have to lie. I always tell him that Ibrahim’s okay, even though I haven’t heard anything about him. Testimony of Khadrah a-Sa’idi (69), the mother of prisoner ‘Awwad a-Sa’idi (43): When my son ‘Awwad was arrested, he was engaged. The Israeli military arrested him on 2 December 2004 at the Abu Huli Checkpoint in the central Gaza Strip, and he was sentenced to 15 years in prison. In 2012, he got into an argument with a prison guard and got four years added to his sentence. In his first years in prison, ‘Awwad’s fiancée and I visited him every other week or so in Nafha Prison. Since then, he’s been transferred between prisons several times and is now back in Nafha. Israel has banned his brothers and sisters from visiting him all along. Since 2017 I haven’t seen ‘Awwad either, because Israel has banned visits to Hamas prisoners from the Gaza Strip. Since the pandemic broke out, Israel has banned visits for all Gazan prisoners. I live with constant worry over my son. I think about him all the time. Israel is using the pandemic to prevent visits from Gaza, but it does allow families from the West Bank to visit. It’s irrational discrimination that is meant only to collectively punish Gazans. It has nothing to do with the coronavirus. When I was still allowed to visit, it was always a very difficult experience. The night before the visit, I couldn’t fall asleep for fear of missing the bus. I’d leave the house at 4:00 A.M. to wait for the bus on the main street. I stood there in the dark, sometimes in stormy weather, in the freezing cold and rain. When we reached Erez Crossing, the torture of the security check would begin. They’d put me through a scanning device again and again, and then again when we arrived at Nafha Prison. Another search, and then another long wait until the guards finished inspecting all the families who had come to visit.

27 December 2021

עבד א-רחים אל-ערעיר בקלנועית בה הוא תלוי כדי להתנייד. כשאספקת החשמל מקוצצת הוא אינו מספיק לטעון את הסוללה שלה ואינו יכול לצאת מביתו. צילום: מוחמד סבאח, בצלם.

The Gaza Strip

Summer 2020: Gaza’s electricity crisis deepens again, with 4 hours of daily supply

Providing the population of the Gaza Strip with a 24/7 power supply requires about 600 megawatts of electricity. Yet the Gaza Strip receives only 180 megawatts — 120 directly from Israel via 10 power lines, and 60 generated by Gaza’s power plant with Qatari-funded fuel provided by Israel. As a result, residents usually receive power in eight-hour rotations: eight hours on and eight hours off. In summer, the power can go off for up to 12 hours. Israel still controls life in Gaza and cannot shirk its responsibility for this reality. Bombing the power plant 14 years ago and preventing its rehabilitation since has limited its capacity to generate electricity. In addition, Israel hampers vital repairs and upgrades to the power system and forces the authorities to buy fuel from Israel alone. To make matters worse, Israel withholds fuel from the power plant at will, as a form of collective punishment. On 10 August 2020, at the height of a blistering summer, after militants in Gaza continued to launch incendiary and explosive balloons into Israeli territory, Israel decided to close the crossings with Gaza and stop the fuel supply. Within about a week, on 18 August, the power plant shut down due to lack of fuel. This reduced the power supply to residents to a mere four hours a day. Three weeks later, on 1 September, Israel reopened the crossings and the power supply went back to eight-hour rotations. It is hard to imagine families living several dozen miles from Tel Aviv without regular electricity. With erratic, brief supplies of power, residents cannot lead a reasonable daily routine in a world that relies on electricity for everything from transporting and storing food to work, education, health and communication. Basic appliances such as refrigerators, fans, washing machines and ovens cannot function. The power cuts make life even harder for people with disabilities or medical problems, who rely on a steady supply for treatment. The outages also damage infrastructure – primarily Gaza’s water and sewage systems and the operation of hospitals. B’Tselem's field researchers collected the following testimonies from residents describing how hard and profoundly frustrating it is to try and maintain a routine in such conditions. These circumstances were not preordained or caused by natural disaster – they are the outcome of a callous, fully intentional Israeli policy. In a testimony she gave B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd on 19 August 2020, Basma Khalil (61), a married mother of 12 from the neighborhood of a-Shuja'iyeh in Gaza City, related: I live with my husband, Khairi ‘Abd a-Rahman (60), in a two-story building. We live with our four sons, two of whom are married with children. There are 16 of us altogether. My husband’s been unemployed for 20 years. Ever since Israeli planes bombed the power plant, we’ve had power cuts on top of the water shortage and the suffering Israel’s blockade causes us. Sometimes there’s no power for the whole day, and it only comes on for three or four hours in the evening. Whenever there’s a war, we barely get any. The water supply is also irregular and if it comes on when the power is off, we can’t pump water to the containers on the roof. I feel like the water and the electricity are two parallel lines that never meet! The situation in Gaza is simply unbearable. The blockade has made things very tough for us financially, and we can’t buy generators to use during the power cuts. The blockade has sent us back to ancient times – we have to use very primitive alternatives, such as kerosene lamps and candles. It’s dangerous and we’ve had more than one fire. Once, I put a candle on the TV and it caught fire. Most of the household chores require electricity. Also, because of all the power cuts, our appliances often break down. It happens because I turn them all on at once when the power’s on, to get everything done before it goes off again. I clean, bake, cook, iron, turn on the water pump, turn on the sun boiler and charge all of our cellphones – at the same time. Our system can’t handle it, and sometimes it burns appliances. When the power isn’t on long enough, I have to wash our clothes by hand and bake bread in a traditional oven (taboon). It’s exhausting at my age. Sometimes I stay up late, waiting for the electricity to come on, so I can finish my chores and use the electric pita bread maker. I can barely stay awake. I bake about 30 to 40 pitas at a time. If the power goes out in the middle, I have to throw the dough out or light a fire to keep baking on the taboon. It’s tiring and stressful. I’ve often had to throw out fruit and vegetables that went bad after a long power cut. I only buy meat on the day I cook it, because I can’t keep it refrigerated. It spoils quickly. The power cuts take a huge toll on me, physically and mentally. It’s really hard to heat the house in winter and I have to use coal, even though it’s risky. In the summer, it’s boiling hot but we can’t use fans. I have trouble falling asleep and often wake up and splash water on my body. Last night, because there was no power and it was so hot, I slept on the floor. I woke up with back pain. My nephews also can’t sleep in the heat, and sometimes we go out to the street in the middle of the night to get some air. It’s also hard dealing with the dark. I bought a chargeable LED lamp for the house, but it’s very weak. In the last two days it's been especially difficult because the power only came on for three or four hours. That’s because the power plant shut down after Israel closed the Kerem Shalom crossing and banned the import of fuel for it. The school year is starting. My son Ahmad is in the 10th grade and needs light do his homework. When he comes home from school and sees the power is off, he says, “I went to school early in the morning and came back at midday, and the electricity still off! What kind of life is this?!”. He gets really upset, because he’s so frustrated. There’s no life in Gaza any more. My children always say to me, “We’re sick of this life. How long will we stay like this?”. We live in extreme poverty, and it’s a huge problem. On top of the electricity issue, I feel suffocated. I can’t take this life any more. I have no hope left. I feel like I’m dying a slow death. All we want is basic things and a normal life: a regular power supply, for my husband and kids to find a job, and of course, for Israel to stop the blockade. A little bit of empathy! We want to enjoy life, see happy days, live with dignity and have the simplest thing – electricity! In this day and age, everything depends on it runs. Electricity is the engine of life. Without it, life comes to a standstill. In a testimony he gave B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd on 20 August 2020, ‘Abd a-Rahim al-‘Ar’ir (61), an unemployed father of eight from the neighborhood of a-Shuja'iyeh in Gaza City, said: I live with my wife Shifa (64), our two married sons and their families in a two-story building. We’re 22 people altogether. In 2012, I was on my way to work when the Israeli military fired a tank shell at an area east of our neighborhood. I was hit, along with other passersby. The doctors had to amputate my right leg and I haven’t worked since. I’ve tried to use a prosthesis, but it doesn’t really work. I've undergone heart surgery and have diabetes. To get around daily, I bought an electric mobility scooter for 2,000 dollars. It has to charge about five hours a day. The scooter means everything to me. It helps me forget that I don’t have a leg. I use it for all my errands, and when I can’t use it because the power's off, I’m paralyzed. I depend on the power supply. Every day, I wait for it to come on so I can charge the scooter. One problem is that the supply hours are irregular. Sometimes, I stay up all night or get up very early to charge the scooter. I can’t stay home all the time. I drive the scooter to the market to buy our groceries and to pray at the nearest mosque, which is about 500 meters away, five times a day. Sometimes, to save electricity, I stay there from noon prayers to evening prayers. At the moment, because the power plant is closed, we only get electricity for three or four hours a day, and that’s not enough to fully charge my scooter. If I leave home to go far, I can get stuck with a dead battery. Then I have to call someone with a large car to drive me home with the scooter. It’s exhausting. Sometimes, when I need something urgent and the scooter’s not charged, I use crutches. When I’m stuck at home because the power’s down, I feel terrible. I can’t afford to buy a generator. Sometimes, when I see the battery’s about to die, I charge the scooter at a friend’s house. He lives nearby and has a carpentry workshop with a large generator. Electricity is vital and every kind of work depends on it. We’re suffering, just like everyone else in Gaza. We have to use primitive sources of light, such as candles, kerosene lamps or smaller lamps. My wife and I do all the chores, and sometimes she has to wash the clothes by hand. I’m in charge of the electric water pump. When I’m out, I keep calling home to check if the power’s come on so I can get back and turn on the pump. The electricity crisis lasts all year round, rain or shine. In winter, when the power’s off all day, we sometimes have to heat the house with coal stoves. In summer it’s even worse, because it’s so hot. We usually have electricity for six hours, and then there’s a 12-hour break. The fruit, vegetables and meat in the fridge go off quickly. You can’t turn on fans and it’s hard to sleep at night. My little grandchildren cry because of the heat. We’ve been living this way, under the blockade, for 14 years and it’s really bad. I pray to heaven for help. Our lives are full of anguish and despair, and we want a change. We’re denied the most basic rights. The electricity problems are our biggest difficulty. I hope this nightmare ends. In a testimony he gave B’Tselem field researcher Khaled al-‘Azayzeh on 23 August 2020, Yihya Sultan (62) a pensioner and married father of seven from a-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, related: I live on the seventh floor of an apartment building with my wife and four of our children, who are unmarried. Two of them are university students. We’ve been suffering power cuts for many years. We used to get eight hours of electricity, followed by eight hours off and then eight hours on again. Now, in summer and winter, the cuts are longer, and sometimes last up to 12 hours. My apartment building has two elevators. When the power goes off, I’m stuck at home. I have a lot of health problems – diabetes, a heart condition and high blood pressure – and can’t take the stairs. Sometimes, if the power comes on in the middle of the night, I’m stuck at home for more than two days, even if there are things I have to do outside. I cancel or postpone them until the power comes back on and I can use the elevator. I pay for electricity twice: to the electric company and to a man who owns a generator. I owe the electric company about 27,000 shekels (~ 8,000 USD). I currently pay for regular use and another 100 shekels (~30 USD) for accumulated debt. I also pay a neighbor who owns a generator at least 100 shekels a month for electricity. That’s enough for lights and two fans, but not for the refrigerator or the computer. When the generator goes off, we use a chargeable LED lamp that barely lasts for two hours, and then we use the flashlights on our phones to get around the house. My kids who are at university are currently at home and can’t attend classes, because I can’t afford their tuition. My daughter Salsabil (23) is studying mathematics. A few months ago, she was in the middle of an online exam when the power went off. She became hysterical and started crying, but then she changed clothes quickly, ran to my brother’s house in the opposite building and continued the exam there. Because Israel closed the crossings through which fuel is brought into Gaza, the power cuts now last up to 20 hours and we only get electricity for four hours a day. Sometimes, those four hours are late at night when we’re asleep, and we can’t make any use of them. The water containers on our roof are only enough for two days. There are large containers by our building and when the power’s on, we have to pump enough water to the roof, otherwise we’ll be stuck without running water. Yesterday, the power came on in the afternoon and I was afraid to go to prayers at the mosque, right next door, and get stuck without the elevator to get back. The power cuts have also hurt our social life. We’re virtually isolated. Whenever our children and relatives want to visit, they call first to ask if the electricity is on. Now, with only four hours a day, they don’t visit at all. I spend most of my time at home and use the internet whenever possible. Our normal life has been taken from away us along with the electricity. In a testimony she gave B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd on 21 August 2020, In’am a-Sultan (48), a divorced mother of five from Jabalya, related: I have five children. I’ve been living with them on the seventh floor of an eight-story apartment building for about 14 years. There are 28 apartments, and all the tenants have suffered from the electricity crisis since Israel started its blockade on Gaza. We can’t afford a generator and the elevator only works when the power is on. I’m in very poor health. I have high blood pressure, a slipped disc in the fifth and seventh vertebrae, a heart condition and a cartilage problem in my right knee. I can’t go down the stairs so when the power’s out, I can’t leave the house. When there’s a steady supply, eight hours on and eight hours off, it’s better because at least I can plan. If the power comes on early in the morning, I go out to visit my mother, buy her groceries, help her and buy our own groceries. Many friends and relatives can’t visit us because the elevator doesn’t work and it’s hard to climb the stairs. Once, my mother was visiting and got stuck at our place until the next day because there was no electricity. Now the electricity crisis is even worse, because the power plant stopped working about a week ago. Since then, we’ve only had power three or four hours a day, with about 18 hours off. It’s a real disaster for me. I don’t leave the house at all unless I have to do something very urgent. It takes me more than 15 minutes to climb the stairs and a long time to go down. I stop to rest a few times because it’s so tiring. Sometimes, the power comes on at night, say 11:00 P.M., when I’m asleep. By the time I wake up in the morning, it’s off and I’ve missed it. If I have no choice, I stay awake to do household chores that depend on electricity, such as laundry, baking bread, ironing, and charging flashlights and cellphones. Our whole routine revolves around the supply hours. It’s exhausting. I make about 100 dinars (~140 USD) a month, so I can’t buy a small generator for the house or set up a solar system to generate electricity. When the power’s off and I can't turn the fan on at night, the heat keeps me awake. Sometimes, my daughter Ahlam and I sleep on the floor. When the power only comes on briefly, I don’t have time to fully charge the LED flashlight batteries and they only last for two or three hours. Last night, we were left in the dark. Things are so bad that I’m considering using candles, even though it’s dangerous.

29 October 2020