I dream of a quiet, drone-free Gaza

Since the ceasefire agreement came into effect, the skies over Gaza have changed, presenting an unusual tranquility. We no longer hear the sounds of Israeli fighter jets or helicopters. Quadcopters have also disappeared, but drones—the “zanana”—remain.

The unmistakable hum of Israeli drones is a constant presence. For years, it has been our continuous companion in Gaza, as Israel uses us as test subjects to develop its drone technology.

During the genocide, the proximity and volume of the hum intensified, delivering a clear message: the drones were hungry for the souls of Gaza residents. For 15 months, these flying machines have controlled where we go, what we do, and who lives and dies. It feels as if the occupiers have installed a surveillance camera on every living soul in Gaza. It feels as if the drones outnumber the birds in the Gaza sky.

For 15 months, the hum never stopped—day or night. It embeds itself deep into the minds of Gazans, young and old, tormenting them. It devours our sanity and any optimism that the war will eventually end.

Under the swarm of drones in the sky, even the simplest activities become challenging. When you cook, the sound creates a dark backdrop that disrupts your focus. You lose your composure and burn what little food you have. The drones fray your nerves, agitate you and your family, causing tensions and arguments to escalate.

An elderly woman in the camp where we live once told me, “The drones are devouring my thoughts.” She considers the constant hum to be a chronic, incurable headache. It gets worse at night, piercing her brain and robbing her of sleep. If she does fall asleep, she has nightmares about bombings and destruction.

Drones terrorize not only with their hum and surveillance, but also with arbitrary, mass killings. Being outside after dark means you risk becoming a target. So, just before nightfall, Palestinians rush back to their tents seeking shelter. Children, who would normally be playing outside, also stay put.

At night, if you feel the need to use the bathroom, you have two options: wet your pants or risk your life to relieve yourself. Panic and fear consume your mind as you press your bladder, trying to hold it in.

I know of several families who use buckets at night and empty them in the morning. Bathing has also become a dangerous affair in the displacement camps. You can’t risk lighting a fire in the late afternoon to heat water, as it may attract drones. Therefore, you must rush through the process during the day, pouring water over yourself, rinsing off the soap as quickly as possible, as your imagination runs wild: what if a drone opens fire? You quickly put on your clothes, as the prospect of dying naked is unbearable.

During the genocide, these drones introduced a new feature: deceiving Palestinians seeking refuge into venturing outside. Imagine, on a sleepless night, you hear the meow of a hungry cat. Driven by human compassion, you go out to give it some food. You are also hungry, but deep down you tell yourself, “I can hold on, but the cat can’t find food on its own.” You go out and throw it a piece of food, and suddenly a gunshot ends your act of compassion.

Drones and quadcopters use a variety of recorded sounds to deceive their victims: the cries of a baby, the sound of a child calling for help. They prey on the compassion and solidarity of Palestinians, despite the unbearable war they have endured.

We have become so accustomed to being tormented by drones that in the rare moments when the hum stops, we feel like something is wrong.

My colleague, Wisal, told me that one night she noticed she couldn’t hear any drones. She was terrified. She woke up her family and urged them to pack their bags. She believed the quiet was a bad omen. She recalled what happened one night in Rafah when the drones went silent: a terrible attack broke out, destroying their neighborhood. Her family managed to escape.

Wisal was right. The silence of the drones once again proved to be a sign of an impending attack. They fled for their lives again when Israeli forces began bombing the “safe zone” where she and her family were taking refuge.

Today, with the ceasefire agreement in effect, the immediate danger of being killed by Israeli attacks may have temporarily subsided, but the drone surveillance and humming continue. Drones continue to deprive us of our sense of security and autonomy.

The prospect of a drone-free sky remains a distant dream, one that is inextricably linked to the broader struggle for justice, self-determination, and peace. Only with a genuine end to the occupation can this vision of a sky unburdened truly become a reality. Until then, drones will continue to devour our thoughts.