Hamza Howidy Left Gaza but Refuses to Leave Its People Behind

Middle East Uncovered contributor Hamza Howidy shares his firsthand experience of life under Hamas, his activism, his escape, and why he still believes in Gaza and its people.

Hamza Howidy was born and raised in Gaza City, in what he describes as “a liberal family, at least in the classical sense.” By coincidence, however, he was enrolled in a Hamas-run religious school, where children were steeped in the group’s ideology from an early age. “It shaped how I saw the world for a while,” he says. “But by high school, I had left religion completely. That’s not normal for someone from Gaza—we are a very orthodox society.”

His coming of age coincided with Hamas’s violent coup in 2007. “I was a little child who had to watch it happen in the street,” he remembers. “It was brutal.” That event would come to define his adolescence; seared into his memory was Hamas’s barbarism. “A typical Gazan never saw anyone from outside,” he says. “They live and die in Gaza. They never meet anyone from the West Bank or East Jerusalem.”

Under Hamas, every aspect of life was politicized. “If you want a job in the public sector, you have to be a Hamas member. It’s a requirement,” Hamza explains. “You go through a process that can take two years—doing religious teaching, being tested, then signing a document saying you’re with them.”

The economic incentive was hard to resist for many Gazans struggling to make ends meet. “The lowest rank in Hamas makes more than a doctor,” he says. “They get salaries, cars, apartments, even wedding expenses. Not everyone believes in the ideology. Many join for survival.”

At the Islamic University of Gaza, a known Hamas stronghold, Hamza studied economics and administrative sciences in the accounting department. Along with other students, including future doctors, lawyers, and engineers, he was required to take Sharia courses but remained unmoved by the ideology behind them. He graduated in 2019, determined to seek reform. He recognized that Gazans under Hamas had no fundamental rights. No freedom of expression, religion, or speech. The unemployment rate was upwards of 60%. Hamas was responsible for the plight of Gazans. And he wanted better.

That same year, Hamza joined the Bidna Naish, or the “We Want to Live Movement,” a wave of protests calling for new elections and an end to corruption. “We believed there was a third way,” he says. “Not joining Hamas for benefits, not staying silent and poor, but calling for a new government led by Palestinians, not militias.”

The response from Hamas was swift. He was arrested, beaten, and tortured. After his release, he tried to lay low—but cowering just wasn’t in his nature. “We knew the risks,” he says. “You can get arrested for a Facebook post. People disappeared for less.”

Hamas wasn’t his only concern. In 2021, Hamza narrowly survived an Israeli strike on al-Wahda Street. His close friend, Dr. Ayman Abu al-Ouf, was unfortunately not so lucky. He was killed just minutes after the two had been sitting together, talking as they frequently did. Dr. al-Ouf was head of internal medicine at al-Shifa hospital and one of the most qualified doctors in Gaza. His death reverberated across the community and was a blow to the quality of medical care in the hospital.

Then, in 2023, months before the October 7 attacks, Hamza joined the protests again. And he was imprisoned for a second time. “In prison, I told myself, this is it,” he recalls. “I will leave Gaza and start my life somewhere else.” Caught between Israel and Hamas, he couldn’t see a better alternative.

Hamza acted on that decision when he was finally released. He secured a tourist visa to Turkey, crossed Rafah into Egypt, and flew from Cairo to Istanbul and on to Izmir. From there, he boarded an overcrowded smuggler’s boat bound for Greece. He describes it as a “death boat.”

“We were extremely crowded,” he says. “We had women and children. The man steering us had no experience, no proper direction. When we reached the waters between Turkey and Greece, the boat started taking on water. It was pure luck that we made it.”

He arrived in Greece alone with only one bag of belongings.

Today, Hamza lives in Germany, awaiting the outcome of his asylum case. He spends his days writing, giving interviews, and speaking about Gaza’s hidden or ignored realities. But he hesitates to call Germany home. “I’m still without documents, still in a refugee shelter,” he says. “But I found safety here—safety I never had in Gaza or Greece. And freedom. I lived 27 years without it.”

Yet even in safety, his sense of belonging is out of reach. “I would call Gaza home only when I can see it rebuilt,” he says. “The Gaza I knew doesn’t exist anymore. It’s rubble and tents now.”

Few voices from Gaza have challenged Hamas as sharply as Hamza’s. But his criticism doesn’t end there—he also challenges Western activism and Israeli policy. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of October 7,” he told me from Berlin on October 6. “I’m seeing posters for pro-Palestine protests that celebrate resistance by all necessary means. Two years after Gaza was nearly destroyed, people still haven’t learned anything.”

For him, true solidarity begins with listening to what Palestinians are actually advocating for. “People in Gaza protested during the war,” he says. “They had two demands: stop the war, and no Hamas in the future. That doesn’t mean they want occupation. They want a future with Palestinian hands, but not Hamas hands. We had eighteen years of them. Enough.”

His criticism of Hamas once earned him praise from pro-Israel readers—until he began speaking about Israeli abuses as well. “I still believe there is no free press in Gaza,” he says, referring to an article he wrote in August for Middle East Uncovered, for which he received profound backlash, “But criticizing bias doesn’t mean I’m giving anyone a reason to kill journalists. We can disagree without killing each other. I’m not writing for people to like me. I’m writing what I believe is true.”

Asked what rebuilding Gaza might look like, Hamza’s answer is sobering. “We’re not talking about fixing a few neighborhoods. We’re talking about rebuilding a city from scratch. The trauma, the starvation, the displacement—how do you heal that?”

Still, he finds hope in the Palestinian diaspora. “We have intellectuals, professionals, even millionaires who can help rebuild Gaza’s civil life,” he says. “People like Bella Hadid talk about Palestine all the time. I think they should help rebuild.”

He dreams of returning one day. “I don’t want to stay in exile forever,” he says. “I want to be part of rebuilding Gaza after Hamas, after the war.”

When asked what keeps him grounded, he reflects. “It was one of my last days in Gaza,” he says. “I was with my family in a wedding hall on the beach. We were all together. I haven’t seen them since August 2023. I haven’t seen my mother or father or my friends. But I remember that night. It felt peaceful. I hold on to that.”

Speaking out takes its toll. “I go through depression cycles,” he admits. “When my family was still in Gaza during the war, I lost my nerves. I went to doctors. It was terrible.” Thankfully, his family made their way out safely, but he still has hard days.

Anyone would understand if Hamza decided to live a quiet life in Germany after all he has been through. But that’s not what he wants. “I can’t watch what’s happening and stay silent. I believe in what I do. I just want to express my anger in a way that helps, not hurts,” he told me.

Before we finish, he adds one last thought. “I criticize Hamas, yes. But I also criticize the Israeli government. What bothers me in the West is the double standard. Intellectuals talk about Islamic extremism—which is right—but they avoid criticizing Zionist extremism. Both are dangerous. Both kill people.”

As the war has finally come to a tumultuous close, and news spread yesterday morning that the remaining living Israeli hostages had been released, Hamza posted on X: “All living hostages are finally home. It feels unreal to even say that after everything. May those who survived find healing, and may we never see such captivity again.”

He still has hope for Gaza and insists he isn’t unique. “I’m not special,” he told me. “There are many people in Gaza who think like me, who oppose Hamas, who want peace and a normal life. They just don’t have the chance to speak.”

As Gaza faces an uncertain future, Hamza’s words remind us that beyond the rubble and rhetoric are millions of Palestinians who think for themselves and long, simply, to live free.

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