In the midst of a still shaky ceasefire, Gazans are taking the first tentative steps along the long road to recovery.
Bulldozers are clearing roads, shovelling the detritus of war into waiting trucks. Mountains of rubble and twisted metal are on either side, the remains of once bustling neighbourhoods.
Parts of Gaza City are disfigured beyond recognition. This was my house, says Abu Iyad Hamdouna. He points to a mangled heap of concrete and steel in Sheikh Radwan, which was once one of Gaza City's most densely populated neighbourhoods. It was here. But there's no house left.
Abu Iyad is 63. If Gaza ever rises from the ashes, he doesn't expect to be around to see it. At this rate, I think it'll take 10 years. He looks exhausted and resigned. We'll be dead... we'll die without seeing reconstruction. Nearby, 43-year-old Nihad al-Madhoun and his nephew Said are picking through the wreckage of what was once a home. The removal of rubble alone might take more than five years, he says. And we will wait. We have no other option.\
The sheer scale of the challenge is staggering. The UN estimates the cost of damage at £53bn ($70bn). Almost 300,000 houses and apartments have been damaged or destroyed, according to the UN's satellite centre Unosat. The Gaza Strip is littered with 60 million tonnes of rubble, mixed in with dangerous unexploded bombs and dead bodies.
In all, more than 68,000 people have been killed in Gaza in the past two years, according to the territory's Hamas-run health ministry. Its figures are accepted by the United Nations and other international bodies. There's no shortage of ideas—including grand designs conceived by those with money and power in faraway capitals. The fight is on to shape Gaza's future. But Gazans we spoke to are sceptical of schemes drawn up abroad, and they have visions of their own.
Yahya al-Sarraj, Gaza City's Hamas-appointed mayor, is out on the streets wearing a hi-vis jacket and surveying the ruins. Already, shops and restaurants are starting to reopen, he points out. Of course it's very modest, he says, but they want to live, and they deserve to live. Gaza is no stranger to these destructions, he adds, recalling several conflicts prior to the cataclysm that erupted, following the devastating attack that Hamas launched on Israel on 7 October 2023. We heard about a lot of plans, international, local, regional plans. [But] we have our own plan. We call it the Phoenix of Gaza. This was the first home-grown Palestinian plan to emerge during the war.
However, the creators of the Phoenix plan know its fate is out of their hands, as competing interests in the Middle East and beyond jostle for control of Gaza's future. This vision stands in sharp contrast to external proposals like the Gaza Riviera, a controversial concept touted by former US President Donald Trump that suggests high-end developments in the region.
Ultimately, the path towards Gaza's recovery remains fraught with complexity, with reconstruction efforts likely to span decades. As locals like Abu Iyad Hamdouna seek basic necessities, the future of their homes and lives hangs precariously between competing visions of what Gaza should become.
![Caterers, Countless Lives: Detroit Chef's Food Feeds Lebanon's War‑Torn Families","description":"In the suburbs of Dearborn Heights, a 47‑year‑old Lebanese chef turns her catering profits into lifelines for over a million displaced from Lebanon, illustrating how U.S. diaspora communities bridge crises from afar.","summary":"When war in southern Lebanon breaks out, hundreds of thousands flee to neighboring Israel and the United States. Amid rising costs, Mirvet Makki—Detroit‑based caterer—sets aside a portion of her earnings each week to sponsor families back home. Her culinary endeavor, which serves soured couscous stews and savory kibbeh, becomes a quiet lifeline for a nation in economic crisis. The problem mirrors a larger diaspora trend: U.S. Lebanese communities fund relief, rally politically, and keep cultural bonds alive, even as they watch conflict unfold from afar.","image":"https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1588097834006-0edc6c69d944?auto=format&fit=crop&w=640&q=80","text":"<p>In the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights, 47‑year‑old Mirvet Makki punches kitchen knives and pushes trays of fragrant Lebanese dishes, the same dishes that stir memories of her childhood village in Bint Jbeil. When the devastating war between Israel and Hezbollah dragged thousands of civilians into tent cities, a wave of refugees hit Lebanon’s southern coast—and the Lebanese diaspora in America felt a pull they could not ignore.</p><p>Every week, Makki allocates a slice of her catering profits to families in Lebanon devastated by aerial bombardments and land mines. She says the money is not a charitable donation in the truest sense. Rather, it is a trans‑national family budget trickle that keeps aunts and cousins fed while they await a return that may never happen. The funds travel across borders to a people whose homes have been reduced to rubble.</p><p>Lebanon’s displacement crisis has reached a scale previously thought unlikely: more than one million of the 6‑million‑strong population—roughly one in six—have fled their homes. The economic damage is brutal and the currency has weakened to the point that the U.S. dollar circulates in many rural markets. Food cost, fuel availability, and basic utilities have all collapsed, leaving communities hungry and desperate.</p><p>“I was thinking, ‘What can I do for other people?’” Makki says. “So I used my business.” She maintains a strict budget, limiting personal overhead to spare enough money for her sisters, nephews, and a small handful of friends who live in the most affected regions.</p><p>Many Lebanese Americans—some of them in the U.S. since the late 1800s—have become the de facto financial lifeline for Lebanon. According to the last census, roughly 625,000 Lebanese‑American residents live in the United States now, though many estimates claim the number could be as high as 1.4 million. Secretary‑General António Guterres shook hands with families in South Lebanon while speaking in Nairobi, underscoring how diaspora remittances are crucial to the country's survival.</p><p>Christians, Sunni and Shiite Muslims, and smaller Druze communities in Lebanon face distinct hardships, but their U.S. cousins unite over common concerns. When the U.S. voted to provide war aid to Israel, a wave of Lebanese Americans gathered around the “uncommitted movement” to protest, and the community also rallied to condemn a Michigan synagogue shooting. These political coalitions share a single aim: to be the voice and the hand for those who cannot lift themselves.</p><p>“When they see suffering in Lebanon, people’s immediate reaction … is for the community to come together, raise funds, raise money, and try to help everybody as much as they can,” says Akram Khater, director of Lebanese Diaspora Studies at North Carolina State University. “Most rely on one another – they are not looking to Washington for the furniture to rebuild.”</p><p>In February, Makki visited her homeland. She saw how the price of living had skyrocketed: a car rental that once cost $200 would now be a luxury. She felt the loss firsthand in a small roadside food stall that had dwindled to a single dish. That trip cemented her determination to channel her income back to Lebanon.</p><p>Some Americans are moving beyond bank transfers; they meet with families on video calls and, when possible, travel to Lebanon themselves to deliver goods or give a hands‑on hand. Nadia Bryant, a 37‑year‑old mother of Troy, Michigan, sends money to her sisters in temporary housing after their village of Ayta ash‑Shab was invaded. “They donated in direct form to orphans,” she says. “They do not even ask to put the money toward their own betterment.”</p><p>While the U.S. still cannot process immigrant visas for Lebanese nationals due to congressional stand‑by, many families despair. Attoui, a Detroit‑based fundraiser, has urged her relatives to immigrate. They are unwilling. “I have all my aunts and my cousins over there,” Attoui says. “So if you could bring [people] here, that would be a relief.”</p><p>Despite the personal losses and cultural distance, the Lebanese diaspora in the U.S. remains fiercely alive. They keep the poise of their homeland, raise money, and stand together in protest. As the war stretches on, the warmth of a pot of stew and the generosity of a family’s earnings become a quiet, daily rebellion against impossible hunger.</p>](/m/d1/2a/d12a9a3593712ff0281d85ddca1a552c8f027c57cb44d7ac67e0241a3bd37d9d/o.webp)
