A survivor of the GHF massacres reveals the truth about the “aid sites.”

Scene from the “Gaza Humanitarian Foundation” Killing Field that doubles as an aid site in the Netzarim area, June 15, 2025 Photo Credit: Mohammed Adwan.

On Sunday, June 15, 2025, at exactly midnight, Mohammed Adwan, a 25-year-old recent law graduate from Gaza, joined a group of neighbors and friends, setting out from his home in the Tel al-Hawa neighborhood towards the so-called Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF) aid site in the Netzarim area about five kilometers away.

Mohammed feigned enthusiasm in front of his family at the idea of going to the distribution point. But inside, he was gripped with fear, aware the journey was not just a walk in the dark, but a flirtation with death.

The GHF site lies in the heart of some of the most devastated areas of the Gaza Strip. The route towards the distribution point is littered with rubble, as nearly all of the buildings lay in ruins. Mohammed walked for three hours, barefoot and exhausted. When he reached the site, he waited three more hours in the cold air of the night, surrounded by thousands of others praying for the same thing: to survive another day.

Mohammed told me local volunteers and humanitarian organizations had formed teams near the sites to help coordinate fair distribution and prevent thieves and armed gangs from robbing aid seekers amidst the chaos. But the rush of people was overwhelming and they could do little to maintain order.

Mohammed stood amid a large crowd of people, all waiting for the arrival of the aid truck carrying flour.

Scene from the “Gaza Humanitarian Foundation” Killing Field that doubles as an aid site in the Netzarim area, June 15, 2025 . Photo Credit: Mohammed Adwan.

At 3 am, the gates of hell were opened. There were no directions or instructions, just thousands of people rushing toward the trucks hoping to secure as much food as possible for their starving families. There were mothers carrying their children, elderly men worn out by fatigue and young people trying to maintain order. They pushed and raced towards the food which had been scattered around. It was as if the crowd was diving—not into water—but into a sea of people. Mohammed witnessed a young man fall to his feet and get trampled to death in a stampede. He told me he’ll never forget that image. 

Meanwhile, Mohammed and dozens of people lay on the ground, trying to move toward the flour distribution point while gunshots were heard in every direction, temporarily drowning out the sound of the drones. 

Many people were hit by stray bullets, returning home not with a bag of flour but in a bodybag. Still, the crowds kept moving forward, hoping to return with something to stave off the hunger and feed their families for a few more days. The scene resembled a hunger game where the strong and lucky survive and the weak and unlucky face death by stampede, gunfire or tankshells. But this was no game, it is daily life. By 5am, Mohammed managed to retrieve a 25-kilogram sack of flour.

Now, Mohammed just wanted to get the hell out of there, but the journey was not over. He told me many of the aid seekers needed to carry knives to protect themselves as thieves and bandits were everywhere in Gaza thanks to Israel’s starvation policy.

Mohammed needed to carry that 25-kilogram sack of flour five kilometers to safety. He was on the dirt path leading to his neighborhood when two armed men appeared out of nowhere, waiting to ambush anyone with food.

They saw Mohammed holding the sack of flour and pointed their weapons at him, demanding he hand it over. But Mohammed refused. In a split second, under the cover of darkness, he disappeared, escaping behind the rubble of a destroyed house. He stayed there motionless for several minutes, hearing the footsteps of the looters searching for him, until he finally decided to run again, fueled by the last of his strength. It was a miracle, but he made it out alive.

When he reached his doorstep, his body was trembling with exhaustion and fear. But there he stood, holding the sack of flour, enough sustenance to stave off hunger for his family for a short while longer. 

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