In the heart of Gaza, survival no longer hinges solely on avoiding bombs—it now depends on the ability to find cash. With every passing day, the Strip’s liquidity crisis deepens, pushing families into a cruel spiral of deprivation, rising costs, and humiliating fees just to access their own money.

Shops that once offered digital alternatives have shut down. Wholesalers demand cash. “I had to stop selling through the app,” says Abu Mustafa, a grocer in Gaza City. “People are desperate for cash, but getting it means losing a third of it in commissions. I’m watching my neighbours go hungry, and there’s nothing I can do.”

The figures are as brutal as the blockade. Commissions to cash out reach up to 32%—a staggering loss in a place where every shekel counts. Crumpled, worn bills circulate like cursed coins, refused by sellers and buyers alike. And with banks shuttered, Gaza’s economy is suffocating under the weight of isolation.

The silence of the Monetary Authority has only made things worse. In its absence, a black market thrives. Those with means exploit the desperate. “It’s not just financial theft,” says one mother of three. “It’s stealing our dignity.”

This crisis is not simply about currency—it is about control. A siege that blocks cash and closes borders is not just an economic tactic; it is a weapon of war. One that starves without striking, suffocates without smoke.

And yet, the resilience of Gaza’s people endures. But how long can you survive when your only access to bread comes with a tax on your suffering?