Al-Karame, northern Gaza — Abdullah al-Zemili is 21 years old. In another life, in another world, that age would mean college, late nights, choices that haven't calcified yet into fates.

In Gaza in 2026, 21 means something else. It means you've lived through genocide. It means you've watched your homeland reduced to rubble. It means you've seen things no one should ever see, and you're still here anyway.

Abdullah is still here. And somehow, against all logic and amid all the death, he decided to build a shelter for cats.

The Shelter in Al-Karame

The setup is makeshift. It has to be. Resources in northern Gaza don't exist — Israel has blocked humanitarian aid for months, using starvation as a weapon to force displacement. The photos from Al-Karame show wooden enclosures, bowls that have seen better days, grass that somehow survived the bombardment.

The cats are what matter here. Abdullah rescues them, feeds them, provides what basic medical attention he can with supplies that don't exist. Many of the animals he cares for carry the wounds of this war: amputated limbs, severe burns, facial injuries. Some are missing jaws.

These are not abstract statistics. Each injured cat is a living thing that survived the same violence that has killed tens of thousands of Palestinians. Each one has a story, even if we don't know their names.

A close up of the tiny tabby, showing his lost eye.

Starvation as War

The context here matters. Israel's forced starvation policy in Gaza, particularly in the north, has created conditions of famine for humans and animals alike. Anadolu Agency reported in March that starving cats and dogs in Gaza City and Jabalia Refugee Camp have resorted to feeding on the carcasses of their own kind and on the bodies of Palestinians killed in attacks but never retrieved.

"People are on the brink of starving to death; now think about the animals," Gaza City resident Esma en-Neccar told Anadolu.

97% of Gaza's livestock has been destroyed through bombing, starvation, and looting, according to the Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor. The animal population has collapsed — cows, sheep, goats, poultry, donkeys, horses. Stray cats and dogs abandoned by families fleeing the violence face malnutrition, disease, and death.

Into this landscape of manufactured deprivation, Abdullah al-Zemili stepped in.

Abdullah kneels among multiple cats and kittens in a makeshift shelter with wooden crates, and artificial grass flooring.

Cats in Islam, Cats in Gaza

To understand why a 21-year-old in northern Gaza would risk everything to care for stray cats during a genocide, you have to understand what cats mean in Islam — and in Gaza specifically.

Cats are believed by Muslims to possess barakah, a blessing power that flows through those closest to God. The Islamic tradition contains countless stories honoring cats. One of Prophet Muhammad's companions was known as Abu Hurayrah — "the man with a kitten" — because a cat was perpetually on his shoulder.

Hadith records that a woman was granted heaven for giving water to a thirsty dog, while another entered hell for starving a cat she had tied up. The message is clear: cruelty to animals is a sin. Mercy toward them is salvation.

In Gaza, this relationship runs deep. The strip faced a cat shortage in 2005 after municipalities used poison so strong it killed both rodents and the cats that controlled them. The rodent population exploded, traumatizing children. The government began offering rewards for cats, and within years, the cat population recovered — but more importantly, the cultural relationship with cats deepened.

By the time Israel launched this genocide in October 2023, cats were everywhere in Gaza. They were family members, neighborhood fixtures, companions in a place where companionship is precious.

Now many of those cats are dead — killed by the same bombs that have killed more than 27,000 Palestinians in Gaza. Others have been abandoned as families fled. The survivors are starving, injured, traumatized.

Abdullah uses a dropper to administer care to a white kitten that looks up at him with wide eyes.

Care as Resistance

Abdullah al-Zemili is not alone. NBC News reported on Sulala Animal Rescue in Deir al-Balah, the only formal shelter operating out of a tent since 2006. Their founder, Saeed Al-Aar, captured something essential about Gaza:

"You cannot look at a creature that trusts you and eat in front of it without sharing."

Sulala shelters about 70 dogs and 50 cats, many with severe injuries. During the worst aid shortages, workers shared their own scarce rice, pasta, and canned tuna with the animals. Their veterinarian, Muath Talat Abo Rokba, was killed by Israeli forces in October while visiting the ruins of his home.

These are not isolated acts. Across Gaza, Palestinians facing systematic starvation have continued to care for animals, sharing what little they have. On social media, viral posts from Gaza have shown residents feeding stray cats even as they themselves go hungry.

This is what resistance looks like under genocide. It looks like refusing to let the occupier strip you of your humanity — not just the humanity extended to other humans, but the humanity extended to all living things. It looks like caring for creatures that cannot care for themselves, because that is what people do.

The tiny injured tabby cat seen from behind and missing most of right hind leg.

The Cost of Witnessing

The photos from Abdullah's shelter in Al-Karame are difficult to look at. The orange tabby sniffing the grass, the black-and-white cat near the wooden enclosure, the hands petting an orange and white cat on the ground — each image carries the weight of everything surrounding it.

These cats are survivors. Abdullah is a survivor. The shelter is an island of care in an ocean of death.

There is a risk in writing about cats in Gaza. Western media has long had a habit of fixating on animals in war zones while ignoring the human carnage — the same outlets that bring you heartwarming stories about rescued puppies will downplay or justify the slaughter of the people living alongside them.

This is not that story.

The suffering of Gaza's animals is inseparable from the suffering of Gaza's people. The same bombs that amputated a cat's limb severed a child's leg. The same blockade that starves a stray dog has pushed half a million Palestinians into hunger. The same Israeli policy of forced displacement that has abandoned countless pets has made 2.3 million human beings homeless.

The violence is one violence. The resistance is one resistance.

Abdullah feeds a black and white tabby from a can of cat food.

What Remains

In northern Gaza, where humanitarian aid has been blocked for months and famine conditions persist, Abdullah al-Zemili wakes up every day and cares for cats.

He does this while his own people are being starved. He does this under the constant threat of bombardment. He does this with no resources, no support, no guarantee of survival.

He does it because to do otherwise would be to let the genocide win completely. It would be to accept that Gaza is only a graveyard, that its only story is death, that the only choice is to surrender to the logic of extermination.

Abdullah refused that choice. He built a shelter instead.

The cats in Al-Karame are alive because of him. That counts for something. In a place where the occupier has made a science of killing, the simple act of keeping something alive — human or not — is an act of defiance.

Abdullah al-Zemili is 21 years old. He is doing work that belongs to saints, in a world run by monsters. The cats of Gaza are still alive because of him.

That is not nothing. That is everything.

Multiple cats are seen eating inside the makeshift shelter built by Abdullah.