Hope Under Tin Roofs: Why Gaza Camp Needs Us Now

In a quiet corner of Jordan, nestled just beyond the tourist paths of Jerash, is a community the world has forgotten. Gaza Camp is home to thousands of Palestinian families displaced by war, caught between borders and bureaucracies. Many of them are newly arrived, fleeing violence and uncertainty—only to find themselves stateless and unsupported, living in shelters that barely stand.
What follows is not a collection of videos—it is a mosaic of dignity in the face of neglect. Each story is an urgent reminder of why support matters. These are lives lived in survival mode. And still, they reach for normalcy, for community, for hope.

Two young girls stand barefoot in a bare cement room. They have no roof over their heads—only two partially covered rooms for shelter. Yet they smile. What does it say about human strength that even here, children still dream and laugh? But no child should have to live like this. Support means giving these girls not just a roof—but a future.

Shelters in Gaza Camp grow by necessity, not design—one cement block at a time, wall against wall, roof patched with tin and stones. This isn’t a neighborhood; it’s an improvised city of survival. Every additional structure tells the same story: another family displaced. Another cry for help. We can’t ignore this quiet expansion of need.

Inside a single overcrowded room, a paralyzed child sleeps under a blanket. His family huddles around him, trying to stay warm by a gas stove. There is no space, no privacy—just love, burdened by the weight of neglect. They do not ask for sympathy. But they need resources, dignity, and access to care that simply isn’t available.

This is not a living space. It is survival stripped bare: a concrete floor, no bed, no storage, no protection from the elements. Clothing lies in a heap. In Gaza Camp, many families live like this—with no means to organize, store, or clean what little they have. Your help can restore some sense of order, and with it, humanity.

Cooking and eating take place on the same mud floor where people sleep. Pots and pans line the edge of the room. A plastic jug serves as the bathroom’s only water source. These are below-basic conditions, unfit for anyone—let alone families trying to raise children. Support here is not about luxury. It's about decency.

One room is held together—literally—by a stick propping up the roof. Sewage gathers on the floor. The furniture is broken, the air unsafe. This shelter could collapse at any moment. But no one is coming to fix it. Unless we step in, that burden falls on those who already have nothing to give.

The man in this video is calm, but his words are heavy: “We’re from Gaza. We don’t have passports. No one cleans our streets.” These families are trapped in legal limbo, denied access to the very systems that could support them. It’s not just about aid—it’s about recognition. And that begins with showing up.

Even in the most difficult conditions, people try to create beauty. Here, a family adds blue tiles, stars, and a religious wall hanging to their cramped space. “My father brought us from Gaza,” says a voice, “may God have mercy on him.” This is a story not just of hardship, but of memory, identity, and pride. Aid should protect these things—not erase them.

The President of Watan, Inc. (dba We Will Return) walks through the camp and says plainly: “It’s very, very, very hard to describe… very bad conditions.” That statement captures what these images and stories cannot fully convey: the emotional weight of standing in a place that the world refuses to see. But we see it. And we can act.

Gaza Camp is not on the front page. But it should be on our hearts. The people here aren’t asking for pity—they’re asking for possibility.

For safety. For education. For warmth. For a roof.
We cannot give them a country.
But we can give them a community that refuses to look away.
Will you be part of that community?
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