“Death Above the Tents”… People in Gaza Sleep ‘With One Eye Open’

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In the heart of Gaza City, specifically at the Unknown Soldier Square, displaced families no longer need the sound of bombardment to feel danger. A strong gust of wind or the gathering of clouds heralding heavy rain is enough for eyes to instinctively turn toward a cracked concrete tower looming over their tents — like a sword suspended above their heads, threatening to turn the place into a mass grave at any moment.

Here in Gaza, people sleep with one eye open.

Inside a torn nylon-covered tent lives Abu Ahmed Zamu, surrounded by dozens of other tents sheltering displaced families from various neighborhoods of Gaza City. Their camp is only meters away from the damaged Bank of Palestine tower.

This proximity is no longer just a matter of distance — it has become a daily burden. The fear of the crumbling concrete is now as great as the fear of airstrikes.

“The danger surrounds us,” Abu Ahmed says in a voice heavy with anxiety. “With every depression in the weather, we feel our end might be near with any strong gust of wind.”

The 15-story tower was once a prominent landmark in the commercial Rimal neighborhood. Today, it stands leaning and fractured after airstrikes destroyed parts of its lower floors.

Its concrete columns are cracked, its upper floors appear to be hanging in midair with no guarantee of stability, while the square around it has turned into a real danger zone where displaced people live without protection.

With every storm, the nightmare is renewed.

In recent days, as Gaza has been affected by a deep low-pressure system, fears have escalated following successive collapses of damaged buildings in several areas. These incidents killed five people — including a child and two women — reminding everyone that in Gaza, death does not only come from the sky but can also fall from cracked walls.

Near the tower lives Nadia Qassem, in her forties, who was displaced with her husband and five children after their home in Beit Hanoun, northern Gaza, was destroyed. She cannot return, nor does she have the option to leave. Her tent, like many others, directly faces the tower.

“During the day we try to cope,” she says, “but at night fear takes over. When my children sleep, I stay awake watching the tower, especially during storms. I’m afraid it might collapse on us while we sleep.”

She tries to appear strong in front of her children, but her eyes betray an anxiety that never leaves her. She has no luxury of searching for a safer place in a city overcrowded with displaced people and besieged by all forms of danger.

Over the past weeks, displaced people and activists have launched appeals on social media, demanding the evacuation of the Unknown Soldier Square or the removal of the dangerous parts of the tower before a disaster occurs.

However, these calls collide with a harsh reality: an ongoing siege, a lack of heavy machinery, and an inability to carry out safe demolition operations.

Gaza’s Civil Defense has repeatedly warned of the tower’s danger. Its spokesperson, Major Mahmoud Basal, stressed that the building poses a direct threat to the lives of displaced people, noting that the agency has contacted several international bodies to no avail, amid a lack of local capabilities to intervene effectively.

With thousands of damaged buildings still uninspected or unsupported, and with restrictions on bringing in rubble-removal equipment, the displaced families of the “Unknown Soldier” Square face two equally harsh choices: remain under constant threat, or search for a nearly nonexistent refuge in a city that no longer knows the meaning of safety.

In Gaza, danger is no longer tied only to bombardment, but also to what the clouds may bring — and what cracked concrete may collapse — as people continue to sleep with one eye open.

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