It’s true that the days in Gaza resemble one another—no new stories to tell, no old ones worth repeating—yet the battle begins every sunrise: how will a family secure its needs of food, water, fuel, and the rest of daily essentials?
The paper currency circulating in the market has completely deteriorated, because the Israeli government bans the flow of cash inside the Gaza Strip. And the banks, which recently reopened after two years of closure, do not provide services for local currency or foreign exchange since the war began on October 7th, 2023.
People split into two groups:
One group owns worn-out cash, and the other owns digital balances on mobile wallets and banking apps. The suffering doubles for those who lost their jobs or professions in the war; they no longer possess any money at all.
The story began when some merchants refused to accept a metal coin of the (10-shekel ≈ 3 USD) denomination. Rumors spread in wars like fire spreads through dry grass. The news crept quietly during the winter of 2023. Large merchants began rejecting it, then smaller merchants followed, unwillingly—leaving people victims of traders and warlords.
Taxi drivers stopped accepting that metal coin. It piled up in pockets and shops, then vanished from circulation entirely.
Poverty in Gaza reached 100% during 2024–2025, according to World Bank estimates, with inflation exceeding 250% due to the war. The economy collapsed, overall consumption declined by nearly 80%, and unemployment reached unprecedented levels—leaving most people in severe food insecurity. According to the United Nations, more than 96% of Gaza’s population faced food insecurity by late 2024 or 2025.
The question that puzzled people was: How and why did this coin crisis begin?!
Within weeks, the infection spread to paper money—specifically the (20-shekel ≈ 6 USD) note—and the excuses were ready: old, torn, punctured… Merchants accepted only the newer ones. Local tobacco sellers found opportunity in this chaos: they agreed to accept the worn cash in exchange for low-quality tobacco blends made from wild herbs.
As the crisis deepened, a dirty profession emerged: the trade of cash liquidity.
Those who received their salaries via banking apps sold them for clean paper money at a commission of (30–40%), sometimes reaching 55%. Liquidity traders became partners in people’s livelihoods.
I receive a small portion of my salary every 5–6 weeks—barely enough for my family for one week. We spend the remaining weeks surviving on anything cheap. This is how Gaza’s people adapt to poverty, unemployment, and salary crises.
The problem is that since October 7th, 2023, nothing has remained the same.
In short: we are strangers in our own homeland. The world sees and hears, while we drink from the cup of poison and die every day.
The muscles of my face can no longer smile. Joy has abandoned us; sorrow has married our emotions in a Catholic marriage—eternal. Every detail of my life carries a suffering I do not uniquely endure.
A week ago, I searched for news about disbursing a portion of my salary, which visits me every 50 days. I was half-discouraged, until I learned the payment began.
I dragged my feet and rode a donkey cart—now the most common form of transportation after cars were destroyed and fuel disappeared. I reached my colleague responsible for salary distribution.
He took out a bag filled with thick bundles of cash, each bundle containing 20 worn-out notes. “Give me your hand,” he said, handing me one without checking it. I counted it quickly, hid it away, and set out on the hardest part of the journey.
My fears were right… all of them were worn-out.
I lowered the hood of my coat in shame and began bargaining with vendors in Deir al-Balah. They returned the notes to me one after another, and I withdrew in sadness. One vendor directed me to a tobacco merchant who accepts worn cash. I went—even though I don’t smoke. He inspected the note, rejected it, then pulled out a bag full of similar worn notes and said, “I have plenty.” I left defeated.
I tried another merchant who agreed to accept an old (50-shekel) note—but on one humiliating condition. I bought an item I didn’t need, then sold it at a loss for two clean notes.
With them, I bought bread and potatoes and reached the Nuseirat market. I wandered through vendors to no avail.
When night fell, I went to a shoe seller. He initially accepted a (100-shekel) note, but his partner examined it under a flashlight and found a tiny hole. He pulled the shoes away and returned the note. I muttered curses as I melted into the crowd.
In Gaza’s markets, there is a new method of examining exhausted banknotes:
Light inspection… like orthopedic doctors examining X-rays.
The truth is, Joseph Goebbels—Hitler’s propagandist—should be a student compared to rumor-spreaders in Gaza. The war traders were beasts; they sold goods at a hundred times their value. In the end, the people went bankrupt, and even money abandoned them.
The next day, news spread that frozen meat had arrived. I gave my son a (100-shekel) note and asked him to stand in line. After five phone calls, I finally heard his answer: “They refused the note… it’s old.”
We live daily enforced adventures: money is in the consumer’s hand… but he cannot buy!
The war destroyed the layers of time in the eyes of Gaza’s people. We live on a planet of suffering. It’s as if someone specialized in engineering crises works day and night to drown us in the details of every hour.
Salary day—sorry: remnants of salary day—is a sad day. A heavy disappointment that drags our feet as we return to our homes.
Gaza suffers an economic collapse after the genocidal war that destroyed more than 70% of its buildings.
Once, salary day was a day of small wishes:
A ready meal for the family, extra fruit, buying clothes, paying bills… and life kept turning.
I buy fuel for a primitive stove made of recycled plastic waste. Last time, I offered the seller five different banknotes—he accepted none. I returned home and lit the wood stove.
Two days ago, I asked my neighbor, Hassan Rajab, who repairs worn-out currency. He said, astonished: a new batch of banknotes had appeared in the market and attracted vendors because they were easier to use.
Hassan earns a meager wage (1–2 USD) for repairing banknotes—a profession born from the crisis.
The wealthy class of traders and warlords consists mostly of disreputable figures; their wealth came from monopoly and looting. They stole abandoned homes and even seized aid trucks. Many of their dealings require payment in freshly printed (200-shekel) notes. These were the people controlling flour and vegetable prices during the months of famine.
At the commercial center in Nuseirat camp, they began accepting old notes—on one condition:
You must spend the entire value of the note… or no sale!
You find yourself forced to buy things you don’t need, just to get rid of your money.
The law of the market during and after the war reveals that merchants and thieves are the true masters…
And the rest of the people are condemned to remain spectators.
Mohammed Ballour