By_Suraj Karowa/ANW , November 6,2025
Gaza City, Palestine –
In the shadow of bombed-out buildings and amid the relentless drone of Israeli airstrikes, the Mediterranean Sea offers Gaza’s fishermen a fragile sliver of hope. For Salem Abu Amira, a weathered freediver nicknamed “The Beast” by his community, the waves are more than a workplace—they’re a defiant act of survival.
As Israel’s war on Gaza enters its third year, this ancient profession teeters on the brink of extinction, starved of resources and haunted by gunfire.
Abu Amira, 45, stands on a rubble-strewn beach in Gaza City, his calloused hands mending a tattered net. The sea stretches out like a taunting mirage, its blue expanse a stark contrast to the gray ruins encircling him.
“People call me ‘The Beast’ because once I caught a fish longer than a meter and a half,” he tells Al Jazeera, a faint smile cracking his sun-leathered face. “But truth be told, I’ve hooked many giants. Now? We barely hook minnows.”
Freediving is in Abu Amira’s bloodline, taught by his father amid Gaza’s pre-war rhythms. Generations of Palestinians have drawn sustenance from these waters, a tradition as old as the land itself.
Before October 2023, when Israel’s bombardment escalated into what human rights groups call a genocidal campaign, Gaza’s fishing sector sustained some 18,000 direct livelihoods, rippling out to over 110,000 family members, according to a 2020 World Bank report.
Fishermen hauled in over 4,600 tonnes of seafood annually, braving Israeli naval patrols that routinely fired warning shots or worse.
That fragile economy has been eviscerated.
Since the war’s onset, Israeli forces have demolished most of Gaza’s 1,200 fishing boats, leaving a skeletal fleet of makeshift rafts and paddleboards.
A December 2024 report from Gaza’s Ministry of Agriculture to the United Nations paints a grim toll: 200 fishermen and associates killed—out of roughly 6,000 in the trade—by sniper fire, shelling, or aerial strikes. The enclave’s annual catch has plummeted 94%, severing a critical artery for protein and income in a population of 2.3 million already grappling with famine-level hunger.
Israel’s blockade, tightened since the conflict’s start, confines fishermen to a mere 200-300 meters from shore— a shallow strip depleted of sizable fish. “We can’t reach the deep waters anymore,” Abu Amira laments, slinging his spear gun over his shoulder.
“The occupation’s restrictions started with the war and never lifted. I have no other job. Sitting idle? That’s not for me.” Dressed in a threadbare wetsuit patched with duct tape, he launches his small dinghy into the surf, vanishing beneath the waves for hours at a time.
Zakaria Bakr, head of Gaza’s Fishermen’s Committees, echoes the desperation from his office in a half-collapsed warehouse. “Fishermen are the most vulnerable,” he says. “The Israelis ban sea access outright, and we can’t even import basic gear like masks or fins.
It’s not just livelihood—it’s life.” In January 2025, Israel designated Gaza’s entire 40-kilometer coastline a “no-go zone,” prohibiting swimming, boating, or fishing. Violators face live ammunition; survivors recount bullets skimming the water’s surface like deadly hail.
The siege’s ripple effects compound the crisis. Aid trucks, when permitted entry, prioritize medicine and flour over fishing equipment, leaving nets to rot and engines to seize. Over 90% of Gaza’s population faces acute food insecurity, per UN data, with soup kitchens in Khan Younis and Deir al-Balah straining under the load.
“Packed soup kitchens feed Gaza as Israel blocks aid,” reads a recent Al Jazeera dispatch, highlighting how charity pots simmer while fishing families starve.
Abu Amira emerges from a dive after four grueling hours, clutching a modest bounty: three mullet and a wriggling octopus. Water streams from his salt-crusted beard as he hauls it ashore. “This will feed us tonight and fetch a few shekels at market tomorrow,” he says, eyes scanning the horizon for patrol boats.
The octopus—prized for its ink and tentacles—might buy flour or fuel. But the math is merciless: pre-war, a single catch could sustain a week; now, it’s a day’s ration.
This isn’t mere economics; it’s cultural erasure. Fishing binds Gazans to their heritage, a ritual of patience and peril passed father to son. Abu Amira dreams of teaching his four children the art.
“It’s not just work—it’s joy, stress relief, freedom,” he insists. In a strip of land hemmed by walls, checkpoints, and craters, the sea whispers of unbound horizons. Yet even that is poisoned: sewage from uncollected waste—exacerbated by Israel’s infrastructure strikes—fouls the shallows, tainting what little swims within.
Broader geopolitical currents offer scant solace. A fragile ceasefire, brokered in late 2024, has held unevenly, with Israeli incursions killing dozens in recent weeks. UN Secretary-General Antonio Guterres called on November 5 for a mandated international peacekeeping force in Gaza, arguing it could secure aid routes and revive sectors like fishing. “Gaza needs a UN mandate for security,” he urged, amid reports of Hamas returning an Israeli captive’s body amid aid shortages.
Yet for Abu Amira and his kin, such diplomacy feels distant. As dusk falls, he mends his gear by lantern light, the sea’s murmur a lullaby laced with warning. “We’ll dive again tomorrow,” he vows. “The Beast doesn’t quit.” In Gaza, where bombs scar the sky and hunger gnaws the belly, the fishermen’s persistence is poetry in motion—a testament to resilience amid ruin.
For these men, the struggle transcends survival; it’s stewardship of a vanishing world. As Israeli PR firms spin narratives of “no war, no peace” and questions swirl over slain journalists like Shireen Abu Akleh, Gaza’s waters bear silent witness. The fish may dwindle, but the human spirit, like the tide, endures—pulling toward an uncertain dawn.