61m tonnes of rubble: Gaza aid workers face delicate task of clearing ruins concealing up to 10,000 bodies. Removal of war debris, in which lives, memories and unexploded Israeli bombs lie buried, is one of largest clearance operations in modern history

A child watches a bulldozer on Beirut street in Gaza City, once a busy area that now lies in ruins. Photograph: Amjed Tantesh/The Guardian

 Seham Tantesh in Gaza City

Sun 27 Sep 2026

It took all day to clear a section of road in the Tel al-Hawa neighbourhood in Gaza City. At the end of it, Ahmed Alyan, a UN engineer, was exhausted, surrounded by mountains of rubble despite the day’s work.

“I feel as if we are holding a spoon and trying to empty the sea,” Alyan said, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead after a long, hot summer day.

Alyan is part of a World Food Programme (WFP) team who have been working on Beirut Street, once a busy main thoroughfare lined with shops, offices and homes and filled with traffic and people. But now it is virtually deserted.

The road was blocked by piles of rubble, stones and the wreckage of destroyed shops. Nearby, a tower stood tilted after some of its concrete foundations were damaged, while displaced families continued to live inside. In some parts of the road, sewage flowed from the ground after the drainage system was damaged and blocked by Israeli bombardment.

The UN estimates that removing the bulk of the rubble in the Gaza Strip could take at least seven to 10 years and cost billions of dollars. That would make the removal of war debris in Gaza one of the largest rubble-clearance operations in modern history.

“The estimate of the total amount of rubble in Gaza is 61m tonnes. It is approximately 20 times the amount of rubble generated in all wars across the world over the last 18 years,” said Jaco Cilliers, the UN Development Programme’s special representative in Palestine.

The task is being carried out in extremely difficult and hazardous conditions. The clearance teams are working in ruins containing countless dead bodies and unexploded bombs. So far, 580km of roads have been cleared, which has in turn made possible the movement of aid trucks, relief teams and residents.

However, the reconstruction of Gaza is a huge challenge facing international and local organisations. After more than two years of work, about 907,000 tonnes of rubble have been removed and more than 300,000 tonnes recycled and reused. But this represents only about 1.5% of the total rubble.

To make things more difficult, the Israeli authorities have banned the necessary equipment from entering Gaza on the grounds that almost any aid that is not food or medicine could be “dual-use”  ...READ MORE  https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/sep/27/rubble-gaza-un-aid-workers-ruins-dead-bodies

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My Sister Najah (AY) By Mike Odetalla of Beit Hanina, Palestine

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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My Sister Najah (AY)

By Mike Odetalla

 

As a small boy growing up in our village of Beit Hanina, Palestine, I was a mischievous child with an insatiable curiosity and an irrepressible desire to roam. The hills that encircled our village were my kingdom, and escaping the watchful eyes of my family became an art form that might well have made Harry Houdini proud.

 

I was the youngest of five children—two brothers and two sisters, all much older than I was. The sibling closest to me in age was my sister Najah, who was six years older. Because of that, and perhaps because she was the most patient, my mother often entrusted her with the daunting task of watching over me whenever she left the house.

 

My mother’s instructions were simple and direct: “Keep an eye on your brother and make sure he does not leave.”

 

Najah did her best, but I was determined.

 

I would wait patiently for the slightest distraction. Then, with my homemade slingshot clutched in one hand, I would slip outside, climb over the patio, leap onto the wall that separated our home from the neighbors’, and within moments I would be scaling the steep hill that rose behind our house.

 

Those hills were my paradise.

 

There, I flew homemade kites that danced against the blue Palestinian sky. I explored ancient caves that seemed filled with mystery and adventure. I stalked birds with my slingshot, imagining myself a great hunter. To a little boy, those hills were not merely part of the landscape—they were a vast and wondrous playground where I experienced some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

 

Eventually, my mother would return home and ask Najah the inevitable question.

“Did your brother give you any trouble?”

 

Unaware that I had vanished, Najah would answer confidently, “No, he is inside playing.”

 

But when my mother stepped into the house and found it empty, she knew immediately where I had gone.

 

Turning to my sister, she would scold her and issue a command she had repeated many times before:

 

“Go find your brother. And don’t hit him.”

 

Both Najah and I understood that the first part of the order would be obeyed. The second part was open to interpretation.

 

As Najah climbed the steep hill, her anger grew with every step. Not because she hated me, but because she knew she was the one who had gotten into trouble for my latest escape. Along the way, she would inevitably break off a thin switch from a nearby tree, preparing to administer justice.

 

At the top of the hill, she always knew exactly where to find me.

 

She would seize me by the ear, scold me fiercely, and swat me on the backside with the switch, paying little heed to our mother’s instructions.

 

The truth is, her punishment never hurt very much.

 

But I had learned a strategy of my own.

 

The moment she struck me, I would let out dramatic wails and sobs as though I were suffering unbearable agony. My exaggerated cries had the desired effect. Panic would spread across Najah’s face as she imagined what our mother would do if she believed that real harm had come to me.

 

In desperation, she would quickly begin negotiations.

 

“Please stop crying,” she would plead. “I will buy you a piece of Silvana chocolate if you promise not to tell Mother.”

 

Silvana chocolate was among the finest bribes a child could receive.

 

The tears would dry almost instantly.

 

We would then descend the hill together, our secret safely preserved between us, both of us knowing that the same adventure would likely be repeated again before long.

 

As the years passed, childhood gave way to adulthood. Life carried us to different places and eventually to different states. Yet distance did nothing to diminish the bond between us. In many ways, it strengthened it.

 

Whenever we were together, our conversations inevitably drifted back to those magical days in Palestine—to the hills of Beit Hanina, my daring escapes, and the cherished Silvana chocolates that sealed our conspiracies.

 

We laughed until tears filled our eyes.

 

What I did not fully appreciate as a child was that behind Najah’s scolding, her switch, and even her exasperation, there was a love as steadfast as the hills themselves. She protected me, worried about me, and carried the burden of responsibility placed upon her by our mother.

 

She was not merely my older sister.

 

She was my guardian, my accomplice, my confidante, and eventually my closest friend.

 

Ten years ago, my beloved sister Najah returned to her Creator.

 

With her passing, I lost far more than a sister.

 

I lost a treasured part of my childhood, the keeper of our shared memories, and one of the people who loved me most deeply in this world.

 

Yet whenever I close my eyes, I can still see her climbing that hill, a switch in one hand and determination in her stride, pretending to be angry while her heart overflowed with love.

 

And somewhere in that memory, I am once again a little boy in Beit Hanina—running free beneath the Palestinian sky, with my sister always finding her way to me.

 https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10165969600031977&set=pcb.10165969600286977

Mike Hanini Odetalla with his beloved sister

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"This moment in Jerusalem feels heavy in a way that is hard to fully grasp. The Old City stands closed under the Israeli occupation, its narrow streets unusually silent, and for the first time in modern history, both Al Aqsa Mosque and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre have been shut for such a prolonged period. Places that have always been alive with prayer, footsteps, and quiet devotion now feel distant, almost unreachable. For many, it is not just about restricted access, but about a deeper sense of separation from something sacred and rooted in identity. And still, people hold on, to faith, to memory, to the belief that these doors will open again, and that the life and spirit of Jerusalem will return to what it has always been." Palestinian Artist Sliman Mansour

Jerusalem (القدس), oil on canvas, 2010- Sliman Mansour.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DWRYoApDR7R/    

sliman.mansour

This moment in Jerusalem feels heavy in a way that is hard to fully grasp. The Old City stands closed under the Israeli occupation, its narrow streets unusually silent, and for the first time in modern history, both Al Aqsa Mosque and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre have been shut for such a prolonged period. Places that have always been alive with prayer, footsteps, and quiet devotion now feel distant, almost unreachable. For many, it is not just about restricted access, but about a deeper sense of separation from something sacred and rooted in identity. And still, people hold on, to faith, to memory, to the belief that these doors will open again, and that the life and spirit of Jerusalem will return to what it has always been.

 

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"In the shadow of famine and under skies thick with grief, we still reach for one another, not to escape, but to stay human. It’s that one quiet moment that gives us the push to keep showing up; to hold on to the land, to memory, to whatever still softens us. Somewhere between the olive trees and the ash, something in us still reaches back." Sliman Mansour, Palestinian

sliman.mansour

A wild flower from Galilee (وردة برية من الجليل), acrylic on canvas, 2020

 "Sometimes, it’s the quietest encounters that remind us to keep going; to speak, to feel, to share beauty, even when the world is burning. In the shadow of famine and under skies thick with grief, we still reach for one another, not to escape, but to stay human. It’s that one quiet moment that gives us the push to keep showing up; to hold on to the land, to memory, to whatever still softens us. Somewhere between the olive trees and the ash, something in us still reaches back." Sliman Mansour, Palestinian

From his website  https://slimanmansour.com/

Born in 1947, Mansour spent his childhood around the verdant hills and fields of Birzeit — where he was born — and later his adolescence in Bethlehem and Jerusalem. These experiences left a significant mark on his work, heightening a sense of gradual loss in Palestine, especially after the occupation of the West Bank and Jerusalem in 1967. His early experiences also presented him with the symbols and images he would later use to preserve and highlight Palestinian identity. https://slimanmansour.com/about-the-artist-sliman-mansour/

Links about Sliman Mansour

Instagram Gallery 

Facebook Page

Wikipedia

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Irina Naji: The other day I was sent a photo found under the rubble of our house in Gaza. In the photo I am with my son - 1998. This is all that remains... and memories.

Irina Naji

The other day I was sent a photo found under the rubble of our house in Gaza. In the photo I am with my son - 1998. This is all that remains... and memories.

Artwork by Irina Naji   

Palestinian Heritage

Irina Naji

In Growing Gardens for Palestine: What is Home? a poem by Mosab Abu Toha

 

Growing Gardens for Palestine

Friday, March 14, 2025

What is Home? a poem by Mosab Abu Toha

https://poets.org

Mosab Abu Toha

What is home: 
it is the shade of trees on my way to school
    before they were uprooted.
It is my grandparents’ black-and-white wedding 
    photo before the walls crumbled. 
It is my uncle’s prayer rug, where dozens of ants
   slept on wintry nights, before it was looted and
   put in a museum. 
It is the oven my mother used to bake bread and 
   roast chicken before a bomb reduced our house 
   to ashes. 
It is the café where I watched football matches
   and played—

My child stops me: Can a four-letter word hold
   all of these? 

From Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear by Mosab Abu Toha. Copyright © 2022 by Mosab Abu Toha. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of City Lights Publishers.

Mosab Abu Toha is a Palestinian poet and founder of the Edward Said Library, Gaza’s only English-language library. He is a former visiting poet at Harvard’s department of comparative literature.  Photo credit: Mohamed Mehdy

 

Recent Books

Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza

by Mosab Abu Toha | Apr 26, 2022

Forest of Noise: Poems

by Mosab Abu Toha | Oct 15, 2024

Laila El-Haddad: A Cuisine Under Siege- I couldn’t rescue my aunt in Gaza, but I can keep her recipes alive.

THE AUTHOR, Laila El-Haddad, PICTURED WITH HER AUNT UM HANI (PHOTO: MAGGIE SCHMITT)

Culture

A Cuisine Under Siege

I couldn’t rescue my aunt in Gaza, but I can keep her recipes alive. By Laila El-Haddad

https://www.saveur.com/culture/palestinian-cuisine-under-siege/

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---

"... Teaching the next generation of Palestinians how to make a celebratory stew may seem trivial,  inappropriate even, in light of the deliberate starvation and plausible genocide facing Gazans right now. But food is as integral to our identity and rootedness to the land as our centers of cultural knowledge, such as archives, libraries, theaters, and schools, which are also under attack. Israel’s assault is eliminating entire bloodlines, and with them, all of the memories and knowledge they possessed. 

I live in the United States now, and I’ve cooked sumagiyya more times than I can count—even if it never tastes quite like Um Hani’s. One occasion stands out. It was May 2021, and Gaza City was being pummeled in what was the fourth major assault by Israel on Gaza in 14 years. The attack coincided with Eid, and as I watched on my screen in Clarksville, Maryland horrific images of air raids and grief-stricken mothers, I suddenly felt the urge to make a pot of sumagiyya. Serving it to my family and friends that night, despite the unfolding tragedy, was unexpectedly liberating and affirming.  

Last month, I again found myself in tears chopping onions and chard for sumagiyya, but this time I was making it to honor Um Hani’s memory. Like in 2021, I couldn’t look away from the news: The park where I used to take my son for evening strolls, the beach promenade where I drank sage tea with my mother, the university where I gave guest lectures—they were all unrecognizable piles of overturned dirt and warped wire..."   READ MORE https://www.saveur.com/culture/palestinian-cuisine-under-siege/

In Gaza, sumagiyya is synonymous with weddings, family gatherings, and Eid Al-Fitr, the Muslim holiday that marks the end of the holy month of Ramadan and its 30-day fast. Photo by Laila El-Haddad