Luxury Cafés in Gaza: The Dark Side of Opulence Amid the Rubble

Social media is awash with images of luxurious cafés and restaurants in Gaza. Pro-Israeli accounts often use these photos to claim that life has returned to normal, that people are not suffering, and that genocide is not occurring.

Those cafés and restaurants are real. I have seen them with my own eyes.

In late March, I made my first visit to Gaza City since the war began. I was shocked by the devastation: rubble on every street corner, roads unrecognizable, as if walking through a maze. But then I reached an even more startling area: filled with new cafés that did not exist before the war.

These are not makeshift shelters as one might imagine. They are built with expensive materials, carefully painted, furnished with sofas, glass tables, and sparkling lights. That opulence seems out of place among the ruined buildings, creating a surreal feeling.

The war has made some people in Gaza wealthy, especially those involved in smuggling, looting, and hoarding during times of scarcity. This wealth now manifests in many forms, including these luxury cafés and restaurants.

Meanwhile, the vast majority of Gazans have fallen into extreme poverty. Before the war, ordinary people could go to a café for a drink. Now, most cannot bear to look at these places, let alone enter and order. They live in tents, without electricity or clean water, having lost their livelihoods, surviving only on the meager aid Israel allows in.

My family is the same. We live in a tent near the rubble of our home in the Nuseirat camp, having lost all income. The comfortable life we once had is now just a memory.

These expensive establishments reflect the unjust social order that has taken shape in Gaza: a class enriched by war, while the vast majority sink into misery, denied education, healthcare, and even food. Genocide is not only about killing and destroying homes and schools; it erases the prospect of a normal life for most Gazans.

I could not enter a luxury café, so I went on to a more modest restaurant, one I used to visit with friends before the war. Walking in, I felt as if I had returned to pre-war days: the same chairs and tables, the same familiar smells. I sat down, remembering afternoons after university classes. I ordered as I used to: chicken sandwich, soda, and a small salad. The bill came to 60 shekels ($20) – three times what it was before the war, when my family still had a regular income.

The restaurant bill plus the taxi fare (15 shekels each way) cost me a fortune. I felt guilty for spending that much just to enjoy a moment of normalcy.

Those lucky enough to afford a café visit may enjoy a brief escape from the horrific reality, but it is only temporary, often accompanied by anxiety upon returning to the rubble-strewn streets, scenes of devastation, and trauma.

Sitting at Al-Taboon café, I thought of the friends I used to be with: Rama was killed; Ranan fled to Belgium. I sat alone, amid the gray of the rubble and the lights from the cafés' generators. Genocide has ravaged everything – even those who profit from it. That reality can never be erased.