The devastating toll of Israel’s military campaign on Gaza extends far beyond the physical destruction of infrastructure and the staggering loss of life. For the territory’s men, the conflict has fundamentally altered their sense of identity, purpose, and capacity to provide for their families. Four civilians have spoken candidly about the profound psychological and emotional shifts reshaping their daily existence — offering a rare window into a dimension of the crisis that remains largely unexamined.
The Erosion of Identity and Privacy
Ahmed, 39, once led a life of intellectual ambition and professional breadth. He was working towards a PhD in factchecking while juggling three roles simultaneously: radio presenter, editor of a local factchecking website, and researcher at an academic centre. He describes that period as one of genuine contentment, feeling both fulfilled and capable of supporting his dependents.
The war dismantled all of it. Where Ahmed once immersed himself in hours of research, he now spends equivalent stretches of time queuing for basic necessities — filling water containers or waiting to use shared bathroom facilities. He no longer sees himself as the dependable foundation of his family, a role that had long anchored his self-worth. “As a man, I derived my appreciation for myself from my accomplishments in my work and my studies,” he explains.
Ahmed had been living with his parents and siblings in a single building, each sibling family occupying a separate flat. In May 2024, they were all compelled to leave and have remained in tents ever since. The absence of personal space has been among the hardest adjustments. He describes an “emotional silence” that has settled between couples in his community.
“The home was a private kingdom, a place to decompress at the end of the day, to speak freely,” he says. “Now life is communal and there’s no privacy. A man can’t express his emotions to his wife as he used to. Everyone can hear; they can’t discuss and work through issues as they used to.”
As a father, Ahmed feels a deep obligation to project calm for his children, even as uncertainty gnaws at him. His youngest have never known a world with walls, beds, or stairs. He tells them that everything will be all right, though he confesses to private dread about what further hardships may lie ahead. “That is the price of manhood in the catastrophe of this war,” he says.
Carrying the Weight of Loss
Nidal, 40, recalls a life that once hummed with purpose and social connection. In 2023, he operated a small enterprise from a storage room in a Gaza City apartment block, selling mobile phones and household appliances on credit. His daily routine involved visiting customers door to door to collect payments. It was more than a livelihood — it was a social fabric. “I got to know people and had lots of friends and acquaintances. My life was good. We had everything we needed,” he remembers.
Tragedy struck swiftly. An Israeli missile attack killed his sister-in-law, and shortly afterwards, his daughter Malek was killed when a second airstrike hit the school where the family had sought shelter. Nidal and what remained of his family eventually made their way back to the wreckage of their building and constructed a tent beneath the collapsed roof, which offers some protection from sun and rain.
Yet hope has eluded him. He spends most of his days sitting by the tent, largely silent and withdrawn. He describes himself not as unemployed but as a man rendered helpless — unable to fulfil the role he believes defines him. “I can’t stand anyone and can’t even stand myself. I don’t even want to call myself an unemployed man – I am a man rendered helpless. Not helpless physically, but helpless in my ability to provide for my family. I secure for them the bare minimum that keeps them alive.”
The shame of pursuing outstanding debts from former clients adds another layer of emotional burden, given the collective suffering around him. He is consumed most days by sadness. “May God spare every man from this: the breaking of a father before the eyes of his children.”
Rebuilding from the Ground Up
Hussein, 24, was a technology student at university before the conflict, running workshops on AI and enjoying the rhythms of daily academic life. He had plans for the future — finding a partner, marrying, building a career in digital forensics and cybersecurity. His world was upended early in the fighting when his home was bombed, injuring his father and leaving his sister-in-law hospitalised for six months.
He describes starting over from nothing, with no food, no work, and no direction. To survive, he took whatever work he could find: charging and repairing phones, buying and reselling them, offering technical support. He takes quiet pride in his ability to adapt and generate income so soon after losing his family’s home. But the emotional cost has been severe.
“I was very, very, very ashamed of myself at first. The war changed everything, even my future.”
He struggles to imagine introducing a future wife to the tent where he currently lives, calling it illogical. He believes he must at minimum be able to offer a home with privacy and running water before taking that step. Still, he holds on to hope. “It has affected me and all young people. We have to repopulate this land and rebuild it. It’s us, the young people, who will fix it, restore it, make it even more beautiful than it was before.”
Purpose Amid Devastation
Hamza, 22, was in the second year of a medical degree when the conflict erupted, spending his days at a desk in his Jabaliya home in northern Gaza. He soon volunteered as an emergency frontline doctor, declining Israeli evacuation orders that instructed residents to move south. The operating theatre became his classroom in a brutal new curriculum.
Working among countless patients with head injuries — with only three neurosurgeons serving the entire northern region — gave him something he had been missing: purpose. “It was an impossible mission for a student like me to work at the hospital and do the work I did. I consider myself a hero, to be honest.”
The experience has reshaped his outlook on relationships. He no longer allows his studies to isolate him from those he loves. “You always have to sacrifice something for something. The war changed all of that … and that is something I am grateful for.” He speaks of his family with visible tenderness: “We love each other more, respect each other more. We slept on the same mattress, sometimes in a space of two square metres. We were hungry together, we almost died together.”
Before the war, Hamza had postponed thoughts of marriage to pursue a plan to study neurosurgery abroad and provide a future wife with a comfortable life. Death and destruction have rewritten those plans; he now intends to start a family much sooner. “In war, when a person feels extinction, they are drawn to reproduce. God has made us this way. We have lost so much; there’s a feeling that we want to compensate.”
Why it Matters
The psychological burden carried by Gaza’s men is not merely a personal crisis — it is a public health emergency with long-term consequences for the entire population. When fathers lose their capacity to provide, when identity is shattered by displacement, and when trauma goes largely unaddressed, the effects ripple outward through every generation. Mental health support tailored to the specific pressures on men and fathers in conflict zones is critically underfunded and overlooked, even though the World Health Organization has repeatedly flagged the severe psychological toll of prolonged conflict on all demographics. Without targeted intervention, the emotional silence described by these four men risks becoming the norm rather than the exception, deepening cycles of distress in a community already bearing an extraordinary burden.