GAZA — Since October 2023, the people of Gaza have lived under the shadow of inevitable death; death that stalks them by land, air, and sea. Yet when it comes, it offers no rest. Across the world and throughout all religions, death is supposed to end in a grave, where the soul begins its journey to the afterlife. But for Gazans, even that is no longer guaranteed. Many find themselves without a body to bury, or without any final resting place at all.
After Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis, southern Gaza, announced it had run out of burial plots, Gazans entered a new wave of psychological torment. Not even the “privilege” of dying in peace remains. Since the start of the Israeli genocide against Gaza on October 7, 2023, residents have endured one of the worst humanitarian catastrophes of modern history. And while scenes of bombardment dominate global news coverage, a quieter tragedy unfolds far from the cameras: the crisis of burying the victims.
In this densely populated and besieged strip, under blockade for over 18 years, the dead are now without graves. Cemeteries have reached full capacity, and the ground itself is burdened by the weight of thousands. The dignity of the dead has become a new burden for the living, who are no longer able to bid their loved ones farewell in a manner befitting human dignity.
“One Person in Three Graves”
As the death toll continues to rise, Gaza’s cemeteries are overwhelmed to a catastrophic extent. Dr. Ismail Thawabteh, spokesperson for the Government Media Office in Gaza, told Quds News Network: “More than 57,000 martyrs have been buried since the genocide began.” Under normal conditions, Gaza sees no more than 6,000 deaths per year, a staggering contrast that the cemeteries cannot accommodate. “Over 40 cemeteries have been either completely or partially destroyed since the beginning of the war in October 2023,” he added, “leading to an acute shortage of burial space across most of Gaza.”
I spoke to Khaled Abdul Aziz from Al-Bureij refugee camp, who described the agony of waiting beside his sister’s lifeless body. “We tried every cemetery, Al-Nuseirat, Al-Zawayda, Al-Bureij, but all of them were either full or inaccessible,” he said. “I sat with her wrapped in a blanket under the blazing sun for an hour in Deir al-Balah cemetery, until a sheikh came and told me there was a mass grave for seven girls from the Ismail family. My sister would become the eighth. I agreed immediately.”
For Khaled, this painful moment ended with relief, he was lucky to find a piece of earth to lay his sister to rest. But his story is not unique. It’s a reflection of daily life in Gaza, where tragedy and helplessness intertwine. In a land too small for the living, there is no longer space for the dead. Graves are scarce, farewells are rushed or denied, and dignity in death has become an unattainable dream.
Even those who were mutilated before death could not be reunited with their own bodies in burial. Enas Qishta recounted the case of her brother Sulaiman: “Before he was martyred, his foot was amputated and buried in one place. Later, his thigh was removed and buried elsewhere. After he died, the rest of his body was buried in a third cemetery. One person, three graves.”
Burials Above the Dead
With no options left, the graves of yesterday have become emergency shelters for today’s martyrs. It has become common to reopen tombs from two decades ago or more to bury newly fallen victims. There are no dividers, no insulation; just a single pit filled with layer upon layer of loss, a scene that crushes the soul before the body.
Ibrahim Shaheen, a young man who volunteered to dig graves in his neighborhood since the start of the Israeli genocide. He told Quds News Network:
“During this genocide, we’ve buried people together in the most extreme ways. Just the other day, I buried eight of my neighbors in one grave: three in the bottom layer, two more above them. We don’t have cement or marble. We cover the bodies with zinc sheets or with wood from destroyed homes. Sometimes we don’t even know their names, so we write them on cardboard, and even that melts away when it rains.”
I, personally, experienced this helplessness in October 2023, when my sister and her family were murdered. We couldn’t find an empty grave. We were forced to open my grandfather’s tomb, he had passed away in 2001, and we placed her body next to his, covering them both with zinc sheets.
This form of hurried burial, sometimes under bombardment or in the dark of night, is more than just a violation of religious and human customs. It is a stark sign of the collapse of Gaza’s funerary system. Shrouds have run out, and mortuary refrigerators have been full for months. According to Dr. Thawabteh, spokesperson for Gaza’s Government Media Office:
“Mortuary refrigerators have been full for months. The bodies of martyrs now pile up in hospital corridors, courtyards, and even inside patient rooms.”
Mass Graves and Donated Rest
As the crisis deepened and burial spaces vanished, the authorities were forced to adopt emergency measures, most notably, the expansion of collective graves as a last resort to preserve what remains of the martyrs’ dignity. According to the government’s emergency plan, new burial sites have been designated near hospitals and in areas adjacent to shelters, aiming to accelerate burials and reduce the hardship of transporting bodies, especially amid ongoing bombardment and movement restrictions.
Despite the harshness of this approach, concerned agencies strive to document every burial as accurately as possible: martyrs’ names and precise burial locations are recorded to ensure their legal and religious rights are protected, whether for future identification, re-documentation, or dignified reburial when conditions allow.
The government, represented by the Ministries of Endowments and Religious Affairs, Local Government, and municipal councils, has launched a series of exceptional measures to respond to the collapse of Gaza’s funerary infrastructure. Among the most critical: using rubble stones from destroyed buildings as substitutes for cement, and relying on zinc sheets, wood, and clay to prepare graves; makeshift materials necessitated by the scarcity of proper resources.
In this context, the “Ikram” initiative was launched to offer free burials for martyrs in cooperation with charitable organizations and donor institutions. Several temporary waqf (endowment-based) cemeteries were established, including the “Algerian Endowment Cemetery” in Khan Younis, which has already received over 1,000 graves standing as a silent witness to the escalating scale of tragedy.
Stripping Death of Its Sanctity
Gaza’s burial crisis is not only a humanitarian catastrophe; it is a violation of international law and a betrayal of fundamental human decency. According to the customary IHL: Parties to a conflict must search for and recover the dead without delay (Rule 112). They must also ensure respectful burial in accordance with religious traditions, avoiding mass graves except in cases of absolute necessity.
Yet on the ground, families are often left with no choice but to preserve the bodies of their loved ones at home for days, or even weeks, due to the absence of burial spaces. Many women are denied even the basic right to bid farewell to their children or spouses, compounding their grief and trauma. In some instances, victims are buried hastily in mass graves, without identification, religious rites, or documentation, under siege and bombardment.
As early as the 17th century, Hugo Grotius, one of the founding fathers of international law, asserted:
“The duty of burial is one of the dictates of humanity… it ought not to be denied even to public or private enemies.”
The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) reiterates this in Rule 113: Mutilation or desecration of the dead is strictly prohibited. The dead must always be treated with dignity and respect.
Failing to provide proper burials or identify mass grave locations is not merely negligence; it may amount to a war crime, or even a crime against humanity.
The systemic abandonment of Gaza’s dead, and the anguish endured by their surviving families, is not only a legal violation. It is a wound in the collective conscience of humanity, and a betrayal of the very principles that bind us together in times of war and peace alike.
C. QNN
