In Gaza, Actors Are Living War Through Theatre

From Ruins to Stage

I've spent years covering stories where people fight back against impossible odds, but nothing has prepared me for what I witnessed in Gaza. For Palestinian actors, theatre is not just art—it's survival.

In the midst of war, under constant bombardment and with their homes destroyed, a group of young artists has found a way to reclaim their humanity through performance. The play they created, '50 Minutes in Gaza,' is based on their own experiences of siege, loss, and daily horror.

"We are ordinary humans, running after clean water, electricity, food trucks and a livelihood so we can survive amidst skyrocketing prices," said director Ali Abu Yasin. "But when we step onto the theatre stage, we feel more alive."

Their journey began in April 2026 as a simple writing workshop supported by the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation. Fourteen young people were supposed to take part, but only eight made it through—some wounded, others displaced or unable to travel.

What started as a creative exercise quickly evolved into something more profound. The actors began performing their own stories, not just writing them. Their performances are raw, unfiltered truth brought to life in a place where speaking openly about trauma is dangerous.

Walking Through Hell

Abu Qasai Qaddoura, a former sound technician turned actor, embodies this transformation. Before the war, he worked behind the camera for local media companies. Now, he walks for hours through rubble-strewn streets to reach rehearsal spaces that don't exist anymore.

His daily routine begins with finding firewood or scavenging materials for warmth and cooking—a stark contrast to the elaborate stage setups of pre-war productions. He carries his family's survival necessities in his backpack, then arrives at rehearsals exhausted but determined.

The emotional toll is evident when he plays a doctor who must amputate his own son's leg during an operation. "Every time I held that child on stage, terror gripped my heart that tomorrow this could be one of my own sons," Qaddoura said. "I couldn't stop the tears because the fear felt too real."

There are no guarantees in this theater. During one rehearsal, an explosion struck nearby. The actors rushed outside to check their phones for news about family members before returning inside to continue.

War in Every Breath

For many of the performers, there's no clear boundary between performance and reality. Iman Ouda, playing a pregnant woman named Haneen, felt her character's pain so deeply that the sounds of drones overhead brought tears to her eyes.

"The connection between my real self and the role is fear," she explained. "Would I finish the show and return home, or what would happen? I became a person who fears everything, loss and joy alike."

Tamer Najm, who portrays a man desperately trying to have a child, lived his character's struggle daily. Before the war, he had saved years for an apartment in Gaza City's Nasser neighborhood—a dream that now lies in ruins.

"I was not acting the character of 'Khaled'; I was living him," Najm said. "I had actually been displaced with my pregnant wife from the north amidst fire and danger, terrified every moment that she might lose her baby."

These are not actors playing roles; they're survivors embodying the trauma of their time. Their performances have become documents of what it means to live through war in Gaza.

Performing Under Fire

As the play progressed, the production faced mounting challenges. Rehearsals took place in fabric tents on hot asphalt, inside a partially damaged building, and even at times without electricity or proper ventilation. With timber scarce, they built sets themselves from salvaged materials.

The company moved locations repeatedly due to security concerns, always carrying with them the weight of their experiences. On opening night, an Israeli missile struck nearby during rehearsal, shaking the building and sending debris falling from the ceiling.

But even as the world around them collapsed, these artists stood firm. The audience was filled with ordinary people who understood their pain. A young girl cried when she saw her father performing on stage—because he looked just like he did at home during moments of stress and worry.

"I didn't feel like I was watching an actor; I was watching you and our real struggles at home," Najm's wife told him after the show. "It felt as though you opened the front door of our house to the entire audience."

Theatre Beyond Borders

As the play toured Gaza in late July through August, it reached audiences across the region—from Daraj to Khan Younis, with more than 500 people attending at one performance. The message was clear: no matter how much destruction occurs, creative expression endures.

Abu Yasin insists that theatre cannot be destroyed. "It requires theatre makers, writers and directors, and even if the halls are destroyed, we can perform in the street," he declared.

What struck me most deeply is not just the resilience of these performers but their courage to turn pain into purpose. They're not merely surviving—they're transforming suffering into something that speaks to others' experiences too.

They've taken their stories, carved from war and displacement, and crafted them into powerful drama. In doing so, they've created a space where the impossible becomes possible, where silence is broken by truth, and where art serves as both weapon and shield.

This is not entertainment—it's resistance. This is not performance—it's survival.