Summary: With charcoal and leftover paint extracted from under the rubble, the displaced write the names of victims, their home addresses, and messages of reproach to the world. The tent has become an alternative Facebook page.

In a Gaza camp, calligrapher Mustafa bends before the entrance of his waxed tent, clutching a coarse brush and dipping it into leftover blue paint he extracted from beneath the ruins of his home. His heart beats fast as he traces the first letter; the smooth fabric rejects the ink, but he insists on completing the drawing.

Colors gather on the canvas to draw the name and picture of a young child, lost months ago during the forced displacement amid the military operations between Hamas and Israel. Neighbors are drawn to the sight of Mustafa drawing; they stand watching the ink slowly drip on the tent's tarpaulin and dry under the sun.

Colors gather on the canvas to draw the name and picture of a young child (Reuters)

Documentation Observatory

Before the war, the concrete walls of homes provided privacy for families in the Strip, but the war destroyed those houses. Gazans were forced to live in tent camps, replacing concrete walls with thin fabric, which turned into a space for residents to express their feelings.

When Gazans began writing and drawing on the cloth walls of their tents, the shelter turned into an observatory documenting social and historical moments, and every piece of cloth became a document recording details of the psychological and humanitarian hardships Gazans endure.

On the fabric of their shelter tents, Gazans write whatever comes to mind: they inscribe victims' names in their memory, their original home addresses to affirm their return, sad reproachful messages to the world, and sarcastic remarks cursing the summer heat and scarcity of drinking water.

In the Mawasi camp, Samar carries a small piece of charcoal and checks the back panel of her tent daily. The mother, with trembling hands, traced the names of her three children and husband, who were killed in the bombing of their home months ago.

Samar says, 'We couldn't bury our children in proper graves because of the bombing. I left them under the rubble of the house and fled as a displaced person. I wrote their names here on the tent so they stay with me and I never forget them.'

Samar wipes the ash dust off the letters and adds, 'The tent became our home and my children's grave. I and many families found writing on fabric the only way to cope with the trauma of incomplete loss.'

Ink of Emotions

In reality, the names of victims dominate the fronts of tents in the Gaza Strip. The fabrics have become open obituaries where people write the names of their loved ones killed in airstrikes to keep their memory alive in the hearts of passersby. This phenomenon has spread strongly as families lose the ability to bury their relatives in regular cemeteries.

Alongside that, the cloth walls have turned into advertisement platforms for searching for missing persons whose news has been lost amid the chaos of war. Families write the names of the absent followed by phone numbers or pleas to anyone who has any information about them. Gazans have innovated this method after communication networks and the internet were cut off, making the camp itself a means of dissemination.

On a tent front, in bold red letters, it reads: 'We are searching for our son Youssef al-Khatib, lost at the Salah al-Din checkpoint. Anyone who knows anything about him, contact tent number 40.' His father Ahmed stands and explains the importance of writing: 'The internet is cut off, communications are paralyzed, and people move between camps all day.' The father continues, 'The tent wall became our newspaper and alternative Facebook page. Through these phrases, the tent turned into a living communication point compensating for the absence of technological means.'

The displaced write the names of their families, towns, and original villages in bold letters on the front panels of their tents. They devised this to counter the chaos resulting from repeated displacement and the loss of many families' identity papers under the rubble.

Geographical Guide

In the alleys of the displacement camp, a tent stands out with black lettering: 'Family of al-Jamal. Displaced from al-Shujaiya neighborhood, Gaza.' Young man Yahya stands in front of his tent and says, 'Displacement erased the landmarks of our lives, and we became just identical tents in weather and color, as if we are without names and without history.' He adds, 'Writing the family name and original town is our new identity card in front of the camp community. This way, everyone knows where we come from, and so the little ones don't forget our neighborhood's name. These phrases have become symbolic title deeds.'

Alongside preserving identity, these writings become a guide helping people find each other amid the breakdown of communication networks. Visitors and relief organizations locate people by reading the family names written on the tarpaulins.

A few meters away, Hajj Khalil Abu Aita searches for relatives recently displaced from the north of the Strip. The Hajj walks among the tents reading the signs on the fabric until he finds his target. 'Without the names written on the tent fronts, families would be lost and no one would know the way to each other,' says Khalil. 'When I glimpse a family name, I feel safe because my friends or relatives are alive. Writing on the tarpaulin has saved us long distances of searching and getting lost among thousands of displaced people.'

Challenges of Graffiti

The process of writing on tents faces complex challenges due to the blockade, which has caused a shortage of stationery and paint supplies. The displaced cannot afford the luxury of regularly obtaining pens, brushes, and colors, forcing them to innovate alternatives from their surroundings.

People rely primarily on charcoal left over from cooking wood for kindling fires. They collect thick charred pieces to use as black chalk pens. Others salvage leftover dry paint cans from under the rubble of destroyed homes and re-liquefy them. In other cases, women have resorted to using leftover cosmetics and damaged dyes to write words.

After securing colors, the displaced face the problem of the nature of the surfaces to be documented. The thick waxed fabric (tarpaulins) and smooth nylon easily repel ink, so they constantly redraw the letters and drawings to ensure their messages remain.

Volunteer Initiatives

In Gaza, individual initiatives have emerged by calligraphers and visual artists who are displaced and move between tents. Volunteers carry their meager leftover colors and pens and go from tent to tent to write the names of families and victims.

Calligrapher Sa'id Obaid holds a reed pen and inscribes a name on a tent tarpaulin. He says while wiping the sweat from his forehead, 'People are dying of depression and grayness. So I decided to use my calligraphy to restore a little dignity and beauty to them when I write the family name in Diwani script or a distinctive patch.'

The calligrapher adds, 'Obtaining paint is a miracle. Arabic calligraphy for us is not just decoration; it is a tool of steadfastness and a declaration that we are a people of civilization and culture even during our lives inside tents.'

Psychological Confinement

On an inner tent wall, young woman Aya wrote: 'The tent failed us in winter, but our hearts will not grow cold.'