Watched, Tracked, and Targeted Life in Gaza Under Israel’s All-Encompassing Surveillance Regime.
This is an article from The Intelligencer, a section of nymag.com, that I have no permission to copy or use, although I’m forwarding the opening paragraphs to you.
Find it somehow. Whatever your position on the Israeli-Gaza war, pro or con, either side, I think you will benefit from the reporting. It has stunned me…
(The story Begins) In the days before we reached the Netzarim checkpoint in Gaza in early April 2024, my wife and I rehearsed a stripped-down version of ourselves. We had already lived through six months of war, but this would be the first time we stood before Israeli soldiers. After seeing journalists killed, hospitals bombed, and bullets ripping through children, we believed that how we told our story could mean everything — for our lives and our chances of getting out.
We would tell the truth. But we would keep it to the parts least likely to invite suspicion: that we were a displaced family obeying Israel’s orders, which often came via air-dropped flyers and anonymous, automated phone calls, to evacuate south after our neighborhood in Gaza City was left devastated by months of bombardment; that Asmaa was pregnant; and that our 2-year-old son, Rafik, was weak from malnutrition. We planned to avoid identifying ourselves as journalists. And we would say nothing to betray that we intended for this journey to be the start of our escape from Gaza, that we planned to exit into Egypt through the Rafah crossing. I practiced my answers until the words felt cold. I was prepared to speak only as a father and husband trying to survive.
We walked through a shell-scarred stretch of road by the Mediterranean. The stroller wheels scraped against broken concrete; drones hummed above. My hawiya — the green Israeli-authorized ID Gazans carry — was in my pocket. After about two hours of walking, we arrived at Netzarim. A coastal stretch where families once walked the beach, it was now a militarized corridor of tanks, berms, and scanners. Two tanks sat ahead of us, snipers stood above the mounds of debris, and a line of soldiers grew clearer with every step.
At the checkpoint, soldiers herded the crowd into groups of five. I kept my eyes on Rafik. A soldier motioned us forward toward a camera: a dark orb behind glass on a tripod, a red light blinking beneath its lens. While Asmaa gripped our son’s hand, soldiers watched a screen behind the camera. Asmaa and Rafik went first. We stared into it and held our breath, waiting for their thumbs-up — the signal soldiers had used for people to move on. Others were pulled aside.
The seconds stretched. “Mohammed,” the soldier finally said. I didn’t react at first. Mine is a common name. Then he said my last name. I felt my breath stop. The soldier, his face masked, a rifle slung across his chest, gestured for me to step forward. The fear wasn’t of what they might find out about me but of what they already knew. My ID was still in my pocket. The practiced version of myself went dead. None of it mattered now. I had just been confirmed.
Israel’s military assault that began in the aftermath of October 7, 2023, has left Gaza unrecognizable. The campaign of mass killing, of severing communities, of making homes unlivable, was pursued with bombs and bullets and tanks. It operated, too, through a system of watching, knowing, and collecting us: drones that hovered endlessly overhead, quadcopters that dipped near windows and entered houses, facial-recognition scans at checkpoints, movements followed through phone tracking, calls that broke with static before an air strike. The Israeli army was using artificial intelligence to generate kill lists, monitoring our social-media accounts, and storing in bulk the audio of our phone calls. Journalists, human-rights researchers, and legal scholars have mapped pieces of the surveillance apparatus in Gaza. What has largely been missing is how this technology landed on bodies, homes, and neighborhoods; how it reshaped daily life for people forced to live inside the matrix; how it reordered our minds.
In response to a list of questions, the Israel Defense Forces said that claims that the Israeli military uses “systems that employ artificial intelligence to autonomously select targets for attack” and that “they attack targets inconsistently with international law” are “completely false” and that Israeli forces “have never, and will never, deliberately target journalists.” An IDF spokesman added, “The IDF is committed to international law and operates accordingly.”
I managed to flee Gaza two days after my encounter with the Israeli soldiers at Netzarim. Over the past year, with the help of two colleagues still in Gaza, I heard from more than a dozen people living under this regime of ceaseless watching. One of these people, Marwan, a 60-year-old hospital administrator in Gaza City, at first objected to my line of questioning. (I’m using only first names. Giving their full names in a report about surveillance feels like an offering to the occupation.) “In the face of mass slaughter,” Marwan said, “what difference does it make that they can see my Facebook posts or hack my calls or monitor my home?”
But soon Marwan could not stop talking about how the constant awareness of being watched had twisted and narrowed his world. He said he now avoids calling his brother “lest he ask whether any rockets were fired from the area or whether the Israelis had arrived in the area,” and those words be misread or distorted by unseen listeners. He described the collapse of connection itself: the way fear moves into a family, one phone call at a time, until even expressions of love begin to feel dangerous.
Khaled, who worked for nearly three decades as an ambulance driver for Al-Awda Hospital, said that during an interrogation, an officer showed him a private text message he’d sent his family. “Everything we say, they can see,” Khaled said. The text was mundane; the point, he felt, was to show this 61-year-old father of seven how deeply they could peer into his private life. People told me they have even extinguished their own thoughts, as if the interrogators and listeners could see inside their heads. “Nobody doesn’t have political leanings,” one man named Mohammed told me. “But I’ve killed it. I’ve prohibited myself from speaking on this. I’ve locked it with a key.”
Everyone had stories of being watched. Mary, a 26-year-old writer, grew up in a two-story house on the more affluent side of Gaza City, where people went to stroll near the sea on streets lined with shops and airy schoolyards. It had a simple white façade, tall windows, a small balcony, and eight old araucaria trees her father had diligently cared for shading the gate. Before the war, passersby slowed to admire them. By this summer, the bombardment had cracked part of the roof open. At around 4:30 a.m. on July 27, while she slept in one of the remaining rooms, Mary woke to a faint buzz that seemed to come from just beside her. “I froze,” she told me. “I could not move. I could not scream.” A dark square hovered near the ceiling. She stared at it, motionless, until it drifted out of the room and exited through a window. If they could fly a drone to her bedside, they could see everything, she told me. Weeks later, her 35-year-old neighbor was shot dead by an armed drone while drying laundry on her balcony, standing beside her 4-year-old son, Mary said. “It is not death that we fear,” she told me. “It is the terror that comes before it.”
Life in Gaza for the past two years has been a process of losing everything visible — our families, homes, streets. It also means losing what cannot be seen: the private space of the mind, the intimacy between people, and the ability to speak without fear of being monitored by a machine. A poll conducted just weeks before the October cease-fire by the Palestine-based research organization Institute for Social and Economic Progress found that nearly two-thirds of Gazans believed they were constantly watched by the Israeli government. This is the dystopian consequence of technology, supplied in part by American companies, being placed into the hands of authorities who have virtually unlimited control over a captive population they have openly villainized. It is the culmination of decades of monitored occupation, a totalitarian nightmare spliced with genocidal terror, a system that is already evolving and growing for whatever comes next.
The old admonition of authoritarian regimes everywhere — If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to be afraid of — has no meaning in Gaza. (So, this portion ends, but there is much yet to come)