From the air, Gaza resembles the ruins of an ancient civilization unearthed after centuries—a jumble of broken concrete, shattered walls, and neighborhoods scarred by craters and rubble, with roads that go nowhere. It looks like the remains of a lost city.
But this destruction wasn’t caused by a natural disaster or the slow erosion of time. Less than two years ago, Gaza was a living, bustling place, despite the hardships its people faced. Markets were crowded, streets filled with children. That Gaza is gone—not buried by a volcano or lost to history, but destroyed by an Israeli military campaign that has left behind a landscape resembling the aftermath of an apocalypse.
The Guardian was allowed aboard a Jordanian military plane delivering aid to Gaza on Tuesday. Israel recently resumed coordinated airdrops under growing international pressure over severe shortages of food and medical supplies—shortages so dire that famine has now taken hold.
The flight offered a glimpse of three tonnes of aid being dropped over the famine-stricken strip—nowhere near enough—and a rare aerial view of a territory largely cut off from international media since October 7, when Israel launched its offensive. After the Hamas-led attacks that day, Israel barred foreign journalists from entering Gaza—an unprecedented move in modern warfare, making this one of the few conflicts where reporters have been denied access to an active war zone.
Even from 2,000 feet (600 meters), the devastation is clear—landmarks of some of the war’s deadliest attacks visible below. These are the sites of bombings and sieges documented at great risk by Palestinian journalists, many of whom have been killed. More than 230 Palestinian reporters now lie buried in makeshift graves.
About 90 minutes after takeoff, the plane passes over northern Gaza and Gaza City—now a wasteland of rubble and dust. Buildings are flattened, roads cratered, entire neighborhoods erased. From this height, Gaza’s people are nearly invisible. Only through a powerful camera lens can a small group be seen standing among the ruins—the only sign of life in a place that seems otherwise uninhabitable.
As the plane nears the Nuseirat refugee camp, the rear hatch opens, and pallets of aid slide out, parachutes unfolding as they descend.
According to the Jordanian military, this marks their 140th airdrop operation, with an additional 293 conducted alongside other countries, delivering 325 tonnes of aid since July 27.
But these efforts fall far short of what’s needed. Aid groups warn that hunger is spreading fast. While airdrops create the appearance of action, they are expensive, inefficient, and provide only a fraction of what trucks could deliver. Israeli data shows that in the first 21 months of war, 104 days of airdrops supplied Gaza with just four days’ worth of food.Gaza in 2023-24
These airdrops can also be deadly. Last year, at least 12 people drowned trying to retrieve food that fell into the sea, and five others were crushed by falling pallets.
As the plane moves south, it passes over Deir al-Balah in central Gaza. Below, in the Baraka area, 11-year-old Yaqeen Hammad—known as Gaza’s youngest social media influencer—was killed on May 22 when Israeli airstrikes hit her home. She had been watering flowers in a small patch of green she had nurtured in a displacement camp.
A few kilometers away, the aircraft nears Khan Younis, which endured months of siege and intense fighting around its hospitals. Somewhere in the northern suburbs lies the rubble of Dr. Alaa al-Najjar’s home. The Palestinian pediatrician, who worked at al-Tahrir hospital, was on shift when her house was bombed in May. Her husband and nine of her ten children died in the attack.
From above, Gaza’s small size is striking—a narrow strip of land that has become the stage for one of the world’s deadliest conflicts. The territory is less than a quarter the size of Greater London. Yet, according to health authorities, over 60,000 people have been killed in Israeli strikes here, with thousands more still buried under the wreckage.
A few hundred meters below us, journalist Malak A Tantesh—a survivor—works on her latest report. Most of her colleagues have never met her in person due to Israel’s blockade, which prevents Gazans from leaving. Displaced multiple times, she struggles without reliable food or water and has lost relatives, friends, and her home. Receiving a message from her as we fly overhead is a haunting experience.
As the plane turns back toward Jordan, a soldier points toward the hazy southern horizon. “That’s Rafah,” he says.
Once Gaza’s southernmost refuge, Rafah now lies in ruins. Hundreds have died in the desperate scramble for food since May, when the Israeli- and US-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation took over aid deliveries. Just a few kilometers east, in crater-scarred hills, lies the site where an Israeli strike hit a convoy of Palestinian emergency vehicles on March 23, killing 15 medics and rescue workers. They were later buried in a mass grave.
After landing at Jordan’s King Abdullah II airbase, one question lingers among the reporters on board: When will we see Gaza again?
And after witnessing this wasteland of rubble and graves—what more can be destroyed when so much has already been lost?
