Nearly all of Gaza’s population of 2 million people have been displaced by the last 14 months of Israeli genocide. At the same time, Israeli bombing has destroyed over two thirds of the Strip’s buildings, leaving the majority of people without adequate shelter. While many live in tents, some are eking out an existence in the remaining hospitals, many of which are now doubling as refugee camps. The Real News reports from the European Hospital in Al-Fukhari near Khan Younis, where families have taken up residence after being displaced on multiple occasions. Producer: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt Videographer: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi Video Editor: Leo Erhardt Transcript Narrator:  The European Hospital is one of the last functioning medical facilities in Gaza. But as well as working as a hospital, it’s also become a place where many are taking refuge, in a gaza where in the face of bombing, evacuation orders and military sieges, places for people to be are steadily disappearing.  Sabreen Al Masri:  When you see injured people, it aects your mental state. When they bomb, you also get scared; you think, “The Israelis are here.” You’re aected. You’re scared. I’m mentally exhausted. I left my beautiful house and came to live in the European Hospital, in a tent. The tent is terrible—when it rained, we drowned. Then the summer came with its heat. We suered. I mean, we’re living through something very dicult. Please, God, let there be a ceasefire so we can go home. We’ll go, even if it’s to a tent—we just want to go home. We’re from Gaza City, not from here.  Narrator:  Majdi is a taxi driver who has been continuously displaced multiple times by Israel over the last year Majdi Majid Razeq Lahan:  I was going to the Jabalia market at the Aleppo crossing when the airstrikes hit. I didn’t understand how. I was walking, and then suddenly, I was on the floor. I looked and saw blood gushing. I found a rope on the ground, cut like this. So I tied my leg here and here. I was bleeding, and no one could rescue me. No ambulance could reach me. I was surrounded by corpses. Many. Around 50. It was a market; do you understand what that means? A market full of people, and bombs fall on it. The only survivors were me and two others, one from the Najjar family. We were the only ones from around 30 or 40 people. There were no doctors; the pharmacy was hit. The central clinic at the Indonesian Hospital was hit. There were multiple incidents. Then they said the tanks had come; some of the doctors ran away. Some stayed. My leg wasn’t supposed to be amputated. I was injured in one leg—it was just flesh. The other leg had a cut artery. They searched for a doctor for two hours. The doctor couldn’t get to the hospital; he was on his way but couldn’t get through because of the tanks and the siege. So they decided, after consulting my brother, who’s a nurse, to amputate my leg.  There are no antibiotics. I’m surviving on painkillers like Tramadol. I stayed three days in the Indonesian Hospital: Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. On Monday at midnight, we were told to move to the European Hospital. Due to extreme pressure, they couldn’t bring us in an ambulance. A bus with 50 passengers came instead. One guy was wounded and bleeding. Every 2–3 hours, he would get a blood transfusion. People were sitting on seats or thrown on the floor, lying there.  My child was killed. He was 24. My hopes were like any father’s hopes—to be proud of his son, to see him get married, to watch him grow. Every time I go to eat, I think of my son. In the month of Ramadan, my son was working in a shop to contribute to the household. But during the sweep of Jabalia Al Balad, while he was in the school, they hit him in a strike. What was the crime of a 24-year-old boy? I raised my son for 24 years; I fed him and provided for him. Suddenly, he’s taken from me. They took our lives, took everything. Where are the people who feel for us? Bring us someone who feels for us—not just me. I’m one of a million. I’m one of 1.5 million refugees. I’ve become hopeless and helpless. What was my crime? My crime was trying to find food for my children. I left on two feet, walking and whole. My son was working in a shop, and a strike hits him while he’s working? What was his crime?  Who will I leave all these people to? I was the only breadwinner in the entire house, more or less. There are around 15 people I am responsible for. Now, as you can see, I am helpless.  Narrator:  Isad is Majid’s mother, who alongside Majid has been displaced multiple times. Isad Mohamed Slimane Rayhana – Majdi Majid’s mother:  No medicine, no therapies, no doctors. Today, whoever gets sick, dies. What’s the crime of children like this? What’s the crime of this child? What’s their crime? They can’t find a place to play. If the Israelis had just killed us, it would have been better than this. I swear. Maybe we would have rested. They asked us to move to the south. We didn’t leave willingly. We left with our children, whose legs and arms were chopped o. I miss the land, the trees, and the olives. I have land, I have trees, and I have a house. Every day, I die for my home. Every day, I die for my house. Literally, I burn inside because of my home. I grieve for my home every day. We left with our youth, our children. First, my son-in-law was killed. Then my son was killed, my brother-in-law was killed, and my grandson was killed. My son lost his leg. We used to be a happy family. Now we are an unhappy family. We are sad. This one kills us; this one humiliates us. The prices and the inflation we are experiencing—we can’t survive with them.  Look. This is our bread, our food. This is how we’re living—with the sewage, the bedding, and the dogs. What has happened to us? We can barely get a drop of water. The bathroom is far away. It’s used by around 700 people. We have to wait our turn. We fight over it. Every day, there are problems. Soon, people are going to start killing each other—over the bathroom, over water, over food and drink. We’re not living a dignified life.