struggle

Shati refugee camp, Gaza – Inside a stifling tent in Shati, one of Gaza’s overcrowded displacement camps, 30-year-old Raneem Abu Al-Eish cares for her sisters, Aseel, 51, and Afaf, 33.

They sit close to Raneem, laughing at times and at others growing agitated when the cries of children playing outside get too loud.

Aseel and Afaf suffer from celiac disease and intellectual disabilities that impair their speech, understanding, and behaviour – conditions that have only deepened under the strain of war and displacement.

They struggle to express themselves, often overwhelmed by their environment, Raneem explains. While she doesn’t know the medical term for their condition, the symptoms at times mirror Tourette syndrome.

‘People laugh, it devastates them’

The cramped tent shelters seven family members: Raneem, her two sisters, their elderly parents, and another sister with her husband.

Raneem’s mother is frail, and her father is still recovering from an injury sustained in Israel’s relentless war on Gaza, leaving Raneem to shoulder their care alone.

The family used to live in Jabalia camp’s Block 2, until Israel destroyed their home eight months ago. Since then, they have moved from relatives’ homes to makeshift shelters, then to an overcrowded United Nations school.

Now they are in this tent, which traps sweltering heat by midday and lets the bitter cold seep through its thin walls in the night.

Privacy and dignity are nearly impossible in the crowded tent. “When they need to change, we try to get the others to step out,” Raneem says. “But it’s not always possible.”

Yet that is only part of the ordeal for Aseel and Afaf, who are bullied daily due to their conditions.

“People don’t understand what my sisters go through,” Raneem says softly. “They judge by appearances, assuming they’re fine. But they aren’t. They need care, patience, dignity.”

Life in the camp overwhelms Aseel. “She finds it hard to cope with noise or sudden changes,” Raneem explains. “When that happens, she gets distressed – she shouts, cries, sometimes lashes out.”

Afaf, meanwhile, struggles with involuntary movements and impulsive behaviours. “A small argument or loud voice can trigger her,” Raneem adds.

“She doesn’t know how to control it,” she says, which makes it all the more sad that Afaf is frequently targeted for mockery, especially by children.

Using communal bathrooms brings repeated humiliation. “Every bathroom visit becomes a spectacle. People laugh, make cruel remarks, and it devastates them,” Raneem says.

Israel took their protector

The family’s greatest blow came six months ago, when Mohammad, Raneem’s 22-year-old brother, was taken by Israel.

Mohammad had gone to Kamal Adwan Hospital for surgery after a hand injury. While he was there, Israel raided the hospital on October 25 and seized Mohammad. Since then, the family knows nothing about his whereabouts.

Mohammad was the sibling most adept at navigating the outside world. “He got their medicines, managed hospital visits, dealt with aid agencies,” Raneem explains. “Without him, we’re completely alone.”

Since his detention, the sisters face worsening food shortages and a lack of medical care. “He was their protector,” Raneem says, her voice breaking. “Now we have no one.”

Between March and May, intensified bombing again displaced 436,000 Palestinians, many for the second, third or fourth time since the October 2023 beginning of the war. For families like Raneem’s – already in tents or shelters – each new wave of violence means starting over again, often without food or medicine.

For Aseel and Afaf, even basic nutrition is rife with threats. Celiac sufferers cannot eat gluten, which damages their small intestines.

In a starving Gaza where there is little to eat other than wheat-flour bread, which contains gluten, there is little chance that Raneem can find vegetables or meat for the sisters, especially with Mohammad detained.

Without gluten-free flour, Aseel and Afaf risk severe malnutrition, and they have gotten a dismally small amount of the 80 tonnes of gluten-free flour that aid agencies have thus far delivered to Gaza.

Much of it was blocked by closed borders, damaged roads, and broken distribution systems. “The little that reaches us is too expensive or too late,” Raneem says.

Begging for empathy, again and again

Before the war, Aseel and Afaf had routine medical care at Kamal Adwan Hospital.

Their conditions required special diets, medication, and regular therapy, needs now nearly impossible to meet.

Psychological specialist Dr Sara al-Wahidi says the war has sharply worsened the marginalisation of people with disabilities in Gaza.

“We’ve seen people with disabilities become separated from [their families in] displacement areas – some missing for long periods, sadly later found deceased,” she explains.

A 2025 report estimates that at least 15 percent of Gaza’s displaced population lives with a disability, and they have to navigate the makeshift shelters, whether in encampments, schools, or hospitals, that lack functioning ramps, adapted toilets and basic accessibility.

Raneem also battles social stigma, and despite her efforts – talking with neighbours, seeking support from community elders – ignorance persists.

“People provoke them, mock them. All we ask is understanding,” she says.

Some elders occasionally invite the sisters to their tents for a visit, brief moments of respite in a daily reality where they have no consistent medical or social support.

“We’ve been displaced again and again, from Jabalia to the west, then Gaza City,” Raneem recounts. “Every new place, we have to start over, explaining their condition, begging for patience.

“These aren’t just war victims,” she pleads.

“They’re vulnerable people forgotten by the world.”

King Mala wants to put it all out there. And she is — at a breakneck pace.

The 26-year-old alt-pop singer released her (positively) nightmare-inducing debut album, “And You Who Drowned in the Grief of a Golden Thing,” on May 2. Since then she’s been on the road, touring along the West Coast from Vancouver to Los Angeles in support of Canadian singer Lights. After her recent appearance with Lights at the Roxy, King Mala will return to L.A. for her own headlining show at the Troubadour on June 26.

When joining a Zoom call with The Times, King Mala, whose real name is Areli Castro, admitted to running on fumes. Having just driven from Portland, Ore., to Seattle in the wee hours of the morning, Castro was contending with a central theme of her album in real time: the chasm between her dreams and the limits of her corporeal form.

“There’s this struggle between the things you want and the things you are,” said Castro. “I just love the idea of playing with grandeur and gods while still maintaining a very like human and gross and visceral vibe.”

Despite it all, she’s maintained a sunny disposition — a stark departure from the moody and dramatic feel of singles like “Ode to a Black Hole.” The macabre visuals from her current musical era evoke the same mystical energy as “True Detective” and 2024’s surprise horror hit, “Longlegs.”

Born in the border town of El Paso to a Mexican father and Puerto Rican mother, the musician grew up attending Catholic church and listening to a lot of soul music, a genre she now describes as her “bread and butter.” While she doesn’t feel stereotypically Texan, Castro still feels spiritually yoked to El Paso.

“El Paso is very, very non-Texas,” Castro said. “When I go to the rest of Texas, I’m like, ‘This isn’t my Texas.’ I grew up on [the] border — Southwestern vibes — and it’s so different than Austin or Dallas. I feel like a desert witch.”

That desert witchiness emanates from the mesmerizing sonic loops and negative space deployed in her songs, which she pairs with “found” footage inspired by ghost hunting shows, ornate Catholic crosses and sandy landscapes captured in her music videos.

Castro also spoke with The Times about how she mapped out her debut album and the life experiences that helped shape her gothic sensibilities.

This interview has been edited and shortened for clarity.

When it comes to the aesthetics of the album, it employs a lot of religious aspects. What was the intention with that?
I love religious metaphor. I find it so grand and ancient and fun to use as a vehicle to tell a story. I’m very obsessed with the collective unconscious and how we keep telling the same stories over and over and over. So using stories that I really admire as the vehicle for this was really fun. There’s just a power struggle in this album that I wanted to capture. And it felt like using the metaphor of God and humanity and of, “How do you exist as a powerful person, while also still maintaining your humanity?” That was the whole point of the album.

Does that attraction to religion and these grand ideas come from your own habit or was it a thing from when you were growing up that influenced you?
I grew up very Catholic, like cradle Catholic. My grandma always wanted us to go to Mass, so we adhered to that. But I was home schooled and the home school community is very Christian. And so I was sort of indoctrinated into that for a good amount of my formative years — middle school [and] early high school. It was very harmful and strange.

It was very interesting to see how predatory the religion is. It’s looking for kids who are lonely and scared and promising solace, which is nice, but then there’s always a backhand that’s like, “Oh, but you have to do this and you have to adhere to this and you have to follow our rules.”

Yeah, I’ve got a little bit of religious trauma to say the least. … Once I was out of that cycle and community, I realized it’s really all very similar to a cult. At what point does a cult transition into just a full religion? Is it just enough people believe it? I don’t know. So that was a bunch of the stuff that I was thinking about as we made this.

What are some media that you draw inspiration from?
I’m a big, big, big horror girlie. So that was a big inspiration. I love that being a human is so gross and I feel like we don’t realize that half the time because we’re so used to it. I love body horror. I love [movies like] “The Substance” and “The Witch.” I’m very obsessed with Robert Eggers and the way he makes beautiful, beautiful horror.

Going into [the album] I wanted to do it the way we did humanity. I wanted it to be very gross and visceral and real and if we were going to do sexy, I wanted it to be very raw. And if we were going to do body horror, I wanted it to be very intentional and intense.

Do you feel like the grossness of being human is kind of beautiful?
I love it. We’re so weird, especially our relationships to each other. It’s so sweet and strange and we love to hold hands and touch our mouths together. It’s so cute and gross and funny. I love thinking of us like we’re aliens. Like if some other creature saw us, they’d be like, “What the f— are they doing?” It’s really funny.

Are there musical acts that you drew inspiration from for this album?
For this record, we drew a lot of inspiration from “22, a Million” by Bon Iver, from Radiohead, from old school hip hop and rap. Kendrick Lamar and old Kanye West … We had a big playlist. Phantogram was on there, The xx is on there, Portishead, Little Simz — she was a big inspo — Doechii, Rico Nasty.

I was drawing from a bunch of different directions. [The production team] knew we had to create this sonic landscape before we started making the record. We wanted to do analog drums and hip-hop beats with reverbed-out, textural guitar, à la Mk.gee. We just wanted it to feel alive and analog.

What do you want people to get out of your live show?
I want people to ascend and join the character. I want it to feel like a movie. I want these songs to live and breathe and sort of experience themselves through everyone in the audience. I think live shows create like such an energy between people. I want it to feel like we’re going to church, like we’re going on a journey together. That’s the goal.

A large farm stretches across the uneven terrain of Bauchi State in northeastern Nigeria, where even motorcycles struggle to navigate the rugged countryside. The land is parched, and the air carries a sense of endurance—of people surviving, not living. This place, Gonar Abacha, is no longer just a farmland; it is a refuge and a wound. 

Now known as Garin Shuwa, it serves as a displacement camp, named after the Shuwa Arab community, which makes up most of its residents. Sitting at the foot of Bauchi’s rocky hills, the camp sprawls in fragile huts made of sticks and thatch, where displaced families live with little support, waiting for help that feels farther away each day.

This is where Imam Abdulkarim, a middle-aged man, and his family found shelter after Boko Haram terrorists forced them to flee their home in Kachan Shuwa, a village in Marte Local Government Area of Borno State, about eight years ago.

Before arriving here, they had tasted the ups and downs of life in an internally displaced persons (IDPs) camp in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital. The overcrowding and hardships eventually compelled Abdulkarim and his family to seek an alternative. With the support of the country’s former First Lady, Maryam Abacha, they were offered this land as a temporary, unofficial residence. That was how they came to settle in Garin Shuwa and began farming on borrowed land.

“We are between 600 and 700 people, and you can find many different stories, but we were all affected by Boko Haram violence,” he told HumAngle. “Among us there are widows, orphans, and those who have lost their relatives. It’s a large community of victims, but we are now surviving as a big family here.”

But there is a problem.

There is no school for the children at Garin Shuwa. No clinic, market, or even a small centre for basic relief. A mosque built recently through community donations is the only structure with a semblance of permanence.

Abdulkarim has learned not to expect too much.

“School is not our biggest problem,” he said. “We have a small madrasa (school) where children recite the Qur’an. What we need, what we truly need, is clean water and a clinic. Just a place to take our sick ones without watching them die slowly.”

“If a woman wants to give birth, she must travel to the town. But the road… even motorcycle riders fear it,” he added. According to Abdulkarim, several women have died due to this. Their babies did not survive. And for years, nothing has changed.

The road from Gonar Abacha to Bauchi town stretches barely 15 kilometres, yet the journey can take over an hour. During the rainy season, it dissolves into mud, swallowing bikes and bodies alike. Women in labour sometimes begin the journey with prayer, knowing the odds stacked against them.

And yet, they stay. Not out of love for this place, but because they have nowhere else to go.

A few metres from where we stood with Abdulkarim, a group of women gathered around a well, lowering water into its shadowy mouth. The well is deep, painfully so, but they are exhausting their energy to fetch the water because they have nowhere else to go.

Fatima Ibrahim, a young widow whose husband was killed by Boko Haram terrorists, wiped the sweat from her brow and spoke without lifting her gaze. “This is all we have,” she said. “This single well serves the whole camp: for drinking, cooking, washing, even bathing.”

She said it gets worse when the dry season comes. The well runs empty, and then they need to start walking again, like before, searching for water like refugees in their refuge.

Two boreholes were once dug in the camp by a local politician and a government agency, “but all of them have stopped working,” Abdulkarim said, showing the location of abandoned taps that had long not been used.

Different location, same problem

Bauchi is not alone in this quiet devastation. Hundreds of kilometres away, the story is the same as that of Katsina State in northwestern Nigeria. 

Many women gathered around the house of Dahiru Mangal, a Nigerian businessman and founder of Max Air, a local airline. They are not city beggars by origin. They are displaced women, survivors of attacks too terrifying to forget, from villages devastated by terrorist attacks: Batsari, Faskari, Dandume, Jibia, and many more. Violence chased them away from their homes, but hunger kept them on the streets.

“I never imagined my children would sleep like this,” says Rabi Ado, a mother of four from Faskari who fled home with her family. Despite her younger age, Rabi’s face shows every sign of hardship: hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and cracked skin.

In the night, Rabi and many other displaced families sleep under the open sky, spreading their mats on bare ground, with only thin wrappers to shield them from the cold night. 

“We ran from the terrorists,” she said. “They came in the night, shot our neighbours, and burnt our house. We walked for days and then got into a car. When we got here, we had nothing.”

Behind Mangal’s compound, a local philanthropy serves food to the displaced. It is a slight relief, given in dignity, but never enough. “It’s first come, first served,” said Hauwa, a young woman who arrived with her grandmother. “Sometimes we get food, sometimes we don’t. And we have to look for something.”.

Aside from begging, some women turn to petty trading, selling second-hand items to make ends meet. It is a small market of old goods, clothes, utensils, mats, shoes, and everyday items that they could never afford to buy new.

Children, especially young girls, join their mothers on the streets, and others go alone. They beg from shop owners and passing motorists, often returning with just enough for a sachet of water. The boys beg, too; others run errands, or sift through rubbish bins in search of scraps of food.

The biggest problem is that these families have never witnessed government support, especially with the continued humanitarian aid cuts. 

They have become invisible in the very state that promised them refuge. There is no shelter, no IDP camp registration, and no aid agency monitoring their condition. The streets are both their home and their shame.

“Even if someone wants to help,” said Talatu Habibu, an elderly woman, “they don’t know we are here. We are not on any list. No government official has come. We are not counted among the displaced.”

Katsina State authorities occasionally promise interventions, such as cash support, resettlement plans, and empowerment programs, but they rarely reach those sleeping under the open skies. And when aid comes, it is often through personal charities, not accountability systems.

“There are many like us,” Talatu told HumAngle. “We are multiplying. When more villages are attacked, they come here too. This place is turning into another camp, but no one calls it one.”

Several women interviewed said several people have come promising support, but they don’t see it. “They come and tell us that they are from the government or Abuja, ask us about how we live, promise support, go, and never come back,” Talatu explained.

The IDPs have learned not to trust the government, local NGOs, or people who appear as philanthropists, even journalists. 

“They were told that when journalists interview them, they get money when the story gets published,” said Aminu, a local fixer for HumAngle. This climate of abandonment and broken promises has silenced many women who refused to speak to the press. “They are tired,” Aminu explained. “And I don’t blame them.”

‘We are all back to square one’

Lack of support defines the two IDP camps in Bauchi, Katsina, and several other communities in the country. In Gonar Abacha, Abdulkarim recalls when USAID, working through a local NGO, used to conduct medical outreach to their camp. “Nurses used to come, check women, and give them medicine,” he said. “The last time was, I think, some months ago. They said they would come back again, but they never did.”

There are over 60,000 documented IDPs in Bauchi. Many have received some support from the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA) and the North-East Development Commission (NEDC), but others remain completely unaided. Abdulhamid Sulaiman, the deputy chairman of the Bauchi IDP communities, explained the situation.

“For those within the IDP communities, they have gotten some support that includes foodstuffs, but the main support we receive from NGOs has been stopped,” he said.

The suspension of USAID-supported programmes has deepened the humanitarian crisis across the Northeast. Several local NGOs, previously dependent on USAID funding, have ceased operations. “We used to get small grants to train women on hygiene, to teach children how to read,” said Aliya Muhammad, formerly with a Bauchi-based NGO. “Now we are all back to square one.”

Humanitarian bodies working in northeastern Nigeria confirm that USAID’s pullback has negatively affected the delivery of essential services. According to surveys in the region, most local organisations relied heavily on USAID, and its withdrawal has crippled their ability to function.

A staff member of SEMA in Bauchi, who pleaded anonymity because he was not authorised to speak, told HumAngle that there is a huge crisis in the activities of SEMA, making it difficult to achieve its plans, especially in the areas of WASH.

“The issue is, SEMA doesn’t rely on any local or foreign NGO for funding. The real problem is that some of the activities that SEMA covers are supported by local NGOs, which rely on donors. As they stop working, the problem increases for us, and it’s difficult or even impossible to solve all of them,” he said.

In Katsina, the situation is even more dire.

Over 250,000 IDPs are spread throughout the state. While those in Bauchi get some support, they don’t even think of getting any in Katsina. “If you are not in an official camp,” said Jamilu Muhammad, a volunteer aid worker in Katsina, “you don’t get counted. And if you’re not counted, you don’t get help.”

In this informal camp, children are the worst hit. The thought of taking them to school sounds like a privilege. “Some of our children used to go to school back in the village,” said Aisha, a mother holding an underweight baby. “But now, they need food first. Survival comes before anything.”

While street begging in northern Nigeria has long been associated with Almajiri boys in Qur’anic schools, a troubling trend is emerging in Katsina: the rising number of girl beggars. Unlike their male counterparts, these girls are not in any structured learning environment. They have no mentors, no protection, and no sense of direction.

HumAngle met girls between the ages of six and ten, wandering markets, mosques, and public spaces with begging bowls in hand. They are visibly malnourished, uneducated, and unguarded. Their parents, displaced by terrorist violence in places like Kankara and Jibia, are too overwhelmed to offer more than basic survival.

The girls said they are the daughters of the IDPs who fled their homes in places like Kankara and Jibia in Katsina State due to terrorist violence. With no schools to attend and no safe spaces to grow, they are forced to contribute to their families’ survival through street begging.

This growing population of girl beggars presents alarming risks. Beyond the obvious deprivation, they face threats of abuse, harassment, and trafficking. Their visibility in public spaces without guardianship or protection leaves them particularly vulnerable to gender-based violence.

As the international community scales back aid and state capacity remains stretched, girls in IDP families are becoming invisible casualties of a system that overlooks their specific needs. “Without urgent intervention, a generation of girls is at risk of growing up in trauma and perpetual poverty,” an aid worker who simply identified as Aliya said.

The surge in tourism has been primarily driven by holidaymakers from the UK, with Great Britain overtaking Germany as the island’s leading market in the first quarter of 2025

The Canary Islands have been a firm favourite destination for sun-seeking sightseers from the shores for decades, but one isle in particular is witnessing a significant increase in tourism this year.

While Lanzarote has been lauded for its measured and sustainable approach to managing visitor growth, Fuerteventura has experienced the highest surge in tourist arrivals among the Canary Islands during the first quarter of 2025, sparking concerns about the island’s capacity to cope with the rapid influx.

According to official figures, Fuerteventura welcomed a staggering 758,195 tourists between January and March, marking a 7.8 per cent increase compared to the same period last year. This translates to an additional 55,120 visitors in just three months — a substantial jump that far outpaces the growth seen on neighbouring islands.

In contrast, Lanzarote recorded a rise of 1.9 per cent, while Gran Canaria and Tenerife experienced increases of 2.8 per cent and 2.1 per cent, respectively.

READ MORE: Canary Islands declares ‘pre-emergency’ as warning issued to British tourists

Fuerteventura’s growing tourist numbers have been primarily driven by British holidaymakers, with the UK overtaking Germany as the island’s leading market, with 243,181 British tourists arriving in the first quarter — a 13.2 per cent increase from the same period in 2024. Meanwhile, German visitor numbers declined slightly by 1.3 per cent, from 239,500 early last year, to 236,398 in 2025.

Fuerteventura’s tourism boom is somewhat of a double-edged sword. The increase in visitors boosts the local economy, supporting jobs in hospitality, retail and transport, but the rapid influx raises serious questions about the island’s infrastructure and environmental sustainability.

Unlike Lanzarote, which has been praised for its strategic tourism management, including controlled development and investment in sustainable infrastructure, Fuerteventura seems to be struggling to keep pace with demand. The island’s roads, water supply, waste management systems and accommodation capacity are all under mounting pressure.

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Local authorities and residents have voiced concerns about overcrowding, environmental degradation and the strain on natural resources, particularly in popular beach areas and protected natural parks — there have even been anti-tourism protests.

On Sunday, May 18, residents from all over the Canary Islands took to the streets in coordinated mass demonstrations in 15 locations — including in Fuerteventura — to demand an end to what organisers called an “unsustainable and exploitative economic model”.

The Canary Islands have long been a model for balancing tourism with environmental preservation, but Fuerteventura’s current trajectory could threaten this stability. The island’s unique landscapes, including its dunes and marine ecosystems, are vulnerable to overcrowding. Without careful planning and investment, the very attractions that draw visitors to the isle could be harmed, undermining long-term tourism prospects.

Experts suggest that Fuerteventura needs to adopt a more sustainable tourism strategy, similar to Lanzarote’s approach. This could include measures such as limiting the number of new hotel developments, enhancing public transport options to reduce traffic congestion, promoting eco-friendly tourism activities, and investing in renewable energy and water conservation technologies.

In November 2024, Jessia de Leon, the Canary Islands’ Minister of Tourism, announced that the archipelago intends to improve on the previous concept of ‘sustainable tourism’ after unveiling a groundbreaking new approach, which focuses on three main areas: new regulatory framework, transforming tourist spaces and climate action. She said: “It’s about erasing or at least compensating for the footprint left by those who visit the Canary Islands.”

Fuerteventura remains a vibrant destination beloved by Brits, but one that stands at a crossroads. It must urgently address the pressures of its newfound popularity to ensure a sustainable future.

Has rising anti-tourist sentiment put you off from visiting the Canary Islands? Let us know in the comments section below