Armed with a whistle, Gaza’s lifeguards do what they can to save swimmers

Gaza City, Gaza Strip – Lifeguards on Gaza’s beaches are working without essential rescue equipment, relying on whistles, hand signals and their own vigilance to protect swimmers amid shortages caused by the ongoing war.

Ahmed Abu Haseira, 33, patrols the Gaza City shoreline from waist‑deep water, scanning for children and people who may drift into danger. When a swimmer needs attention, he blows a whistle that is shared with other lifeguards during shift changes. Abu Haseira once had his own whistle, but it was buried beneath his home when an Israeli strike in August 2024 destroyed the house, killing his wife, three children, his father and other family members. He was at the home when the attack occurred, having finished a shift at the beach only half an hour earlier. After surviving his injuries, he returned to the water.

The beaches remain one of the few places Palestinians can enjoy a brief respite from the heat, displacement and war pressures. However, lifeguards now work without loudspeakers, rescue buoys, watchtowers or boats that once helped them reach emergencies offshore. They rely largely on eyes, voices and hand signals. “We try to make an extra effort so that all the children and young people are monitored and kept safe,” Abu Haseira says.

According to Ibrahim Shamlakh, head of the Gaza Municipality’s marine rescue department, about 120 lifeguards are currently employed along the beaches, down from roughly 140 before the war. They work in two shifts, from 8 am to 2 pm and from 2 pm to 8 pm. Shamlakh, who has served in marine rescue for about 27 years, says the team has increased its presence this summer, despite losing much infrastructure. “This year we deployed more lifeguards and strengthened the areas where there are crowds,” he says. “We organised our teams better with the resources available to us.”

Before the war, the coastline featured elevated lifeguard towers every 200 metres, each 3.3 metres high and equipped with sound systems, communication equipment and rescue gear. Lifeguards now work from ground‑level tents or makeshift structures, giving them a much narrower field of vision. “If someone stands in front of us in the tent, they block our vision,” Shamlakh explains. “The ground‑level tent gives us almost no visibility.” Boats that once helped reach offshore emergencies were also destroyed.

Lifeguards handle between 20 and 50 rescue incidents on an average day, with the number rising sharply when the beach is crowded. On one Friday, Shamlakh says, they responded to 165 cases. Since the current season began, two people have drowned outside lifeguard‑covered areas, including a young child. Bilal Bakar, 33, has worked as a lifeguard for 15 years. He arrives early and watches swimmers for long hours under the summer sun. “People can barely hear us,” he says. “We call out, we shout, we blow our whistles, but they still don’t hear us.”

Lifeguards use flags to mark safe and dangerous swimming zones. “We put up red flags, but some people still insist on swimming,” Bakar says. “We are trying to protect them. We are looking out for their own safety.” The municipality has obtained about 50 whistles this year, but they are more expensive than before the war. “The whistle used to cost 25 shekels ($8) before the war,” Shamlakh says. “Today it costs 100 shekels ($34).” Rescue buoys are also scarce. A lifeguard would ideally have one for every rescue, but teams sometimes lack enough equipment. “If four or five people start drowning at the same time, we don’t have enough buoys for all of them,” Bakar says. “We rely on ourselves and on the strength of the young men to bring them back.”

Financial uncertainty compounds the physical demands. Lifeguards receive about 25 shekels for a six‑hour shift, but payments are irregular. Bakar says the team once worked for 75 days without being paid. “I have three children, and with my wife, we are five,” he says. “All the young men are struggling. There is no money, and there are no regular salaries.” Many lifeguards are former fishermen who can no longer work at sea, making lifeguarding one of the few ways they can earn a living. “The lifeguards are struggling just like everyone else,” Shamlakh says.

Despite shortages, lifeguards extend their working hours. Shamlakh says some, including himself, arrive before official shifts to cover early mornings. “We go down voluntarily from 6 to 8 in the morning,” he says. “We cover that time so that we don’t have any drowning incidents.”

For Abu Haseira, motivation goes beyond money. “For me, saving a life is a great honour and gives me comfort,” he says. “When I save a life, I feel like I am saving myself.” He says the work also connects him emotionally to the family he lost. “I feel I’m giving it to the souls of my children and wife,” he says. Even when not officially on duty, he continues to watch the water. Bakar describes the same commitment among his colleagues. After 15 years on the coast, he and his colleagues have continued to return each summer, passing responsibility from one generation to the next. “Every year, they ask us if we are ready to come back and work in rescue,” he says. “We tell them: yes, we are ready.”