Prism40%
The genocide’s other cost: the freezing of Palestinian bank accounts 35%
By Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi48%
7/27/2026, 8:20:26 AM
BS Summary: This article contains 39 faulty reasoning types, including Appeal to Emotion, Hasty Generalization, and Appeal to Authority, with Negativity Bias as the most egregious example at 19.7% saturation with 460 hits. Analysis detected 3,378 faulty-reasoning hits from 2,337 analyzed words, generating a BS Score of 37.5% and a BS Rank of 35% (16,683 of 25,563 articles). This article is better (less manipulative) than 65.30% of the article peer group.
My father received a wire transfer into his bank account on March 10.
It was payment for an article I published with an international publication.
Within hours, all of his accounts were frozen at the Bank of Palestine, the Arab Islamic Bank, the National Bank, and the Palestine Islamic Bank, along with his e-wallets, including Jawwal Pay and PalPay.
My father learned of the freeze when he tried to use funds in his account to buy food.
Only then did he receive a notification from the bank informing him he had “no accounts available to display.”
There was no explanation about why this was happening—and no timeline for when it would end.
We knew who was responsible: the Israeli occupation and its allies around the world.
They don’t need to bomb every house to destroy our lives; they can simply freeze our bank accounts, making it impossible for us to live.
They don’t actually have to lift a finger; they simply instruct the banks to do their dirty work, and the banks and the Palestinian Monetary Authority (PMA) comply.
The unceremonious freezing of tens of thousands of dollars didn’t just impact my father; it affected our entire family—and the same thing is happening to people all over Gaza.
I have worked as a writer, poet, and editor since January 2025.
I didn’t previously have a bank account of my own in Gaza because no bank allowed me to open one.
When I asked why, I was given vague remarks about “security procedures.”
So I did what many other Gazans do: Every payment I received went into my father’s accounts.
Otherwise, I had no way to obtain my earnings.
As of July, my personal funds and the thousands of dollars I earned documenting and reporting on the genocide under unimaginable conditions remain frozen.
My father’s savings, his salary from the Islamic University of Gaza—where he previously taught courses and now serves as the head of the employees’ union—and every other cent we have remains totally inaccessible.
We don’t know if or when we will see our money again, and it’s not from lack of trying.
My father contacted the bank multiple times and even reached out to the bank’s chair.
Together, we went to the bank on three occasions, though securing a meeting with the branch manager proved extremely difficult.
But even after we met with him, nothing changed.
No matter who we spoke to, the answer was always the same: The freeze was sanctioned by “higher authorities,” though no one would say who.
A friend who works at one of Gaza’s banks, speaking on condition of anonymity for fear of retribution, confirmed that when accounts like ours are frozen, the decision is not made by the bank.
Rather, it is the result of an arbitrary and unjust policy imposed through higher authorities.
My friend and their colleagues understand these orders to be connected to Israeli security policies , implemented through the PMA.
In May, the Palestinian news outlet Felesteen published a report about these practices.
The reporting quoted Mus’ab Madoukh, director of the Palestinian advocacy group Nebras Al-Wafa that focuses on issues facing current and former prisoners in Israeli prisons.
Madoukh alleged that the Bank of Palestine is freezing bank accounts and refusing to open new accounts for freed prisoners and the families of martyrs, despite public anger and protests.
In recent months, thousands of accounts belonging to prisoners, released prisoners, and families of people killed by Israel have been closed, Felesteen reported.
According to Madoukh, banks have not responded to account holders seeking information about when they will again be able to access their funds.
In addition to prisoners, martyrs, and their families, beginning in July 2025, between 1,200 and 1,800 government employees had their accounts frozen by Bank of Palestine, with some remaining inaccessible for as long as six months, Eqtesadia reported .
Their families were forced to survive on debt and charity.
When contacted with questions about the freezing of Palestinian’s accounts, the Bank of Palestine, the Arab Islamic Bank, the National Bank, the Ministry of Finance, and the PMA did not respond by publication time.
Gaza remains in a severe cash crisis.
As part of its ongoing blockade, Israel controls the flow of currency into the Strip, resulting in a permanent shortage of physical cash that forces Gazans to rely almost completely on e-wallets and digital payments.
According to Ramy Abdu , a Palestinian academic, financial expert, and human rights advocate, in 2025 , Gaza accounted for 62% of all e-wallet holders in Palestine, while the West Bank accounted for 38%.
In the West Bank, cash remains available and bank accounts are accessible, so e-wallets are used for small transactions.
In Gaza, however, Israel has decimated the banking system , so e-wallets continue to act as a depository for salaries and savings and the primary way to buy food and other goods.
There are five licensed electronic payment companies in Palestine, but the services actually available in Gaza are limited to just two: Jawwal Pay and PalPay.
These two wallets have become the primary digital financial tools for residents.
However, as my father discovered, even these e-wallets are not safe from arbitrary freezes and suspensions.
Freeze orders are issued almost daily without warning or explanation, affecting bank accounts and both Jawwal Pay and PalPay.
The Bank of Palestine has frozen or closed the accounts of thousands of Palestinians in Gaza, vaguely citing “ administrative procedures ,” CounterCurrents reported last month.
Abdu told CounterCurrents that the account freezes are based on directives “from a joint security cell operating with the Israelis.”
Account holders are given no clear pathway to challenge these decisions, and they have no way to present evidence in their defense, because bank officials never inform them what they are accused of—if anything at all.
Many residents, desperate for answers, go to their local bank.
Bank employees usually refer them to the PMA, only to have the PMA send them back to the bank.
It is an endless loop with no one to hold accountable.
For those of us navigating these conditions, it feels like yet another form of control from the Israeli occupation.
Working through the PMA and compliant banks, the occupation can effectively suspend the financial lives of Palestinians in Gaza, leaving us unable to move forward or back.
The account freezes seem to impact government workers, current and former prisoners, even the families of martyrs.
But I wanted to know: Is this happening to others reporting on the genocide?
The account freezes seem to impact a wide array of people: government workers, current and former prisoners, even the families of martyrs.
But I wanted to know: Is this happening to others reporting on the genocide?
I reached out to freelance writers in Gaza, such as Mariam Mushtaha .
She told me that on Oct. 18, 2025, her family received a call from the Israeli military ordering them to immediately evacuate their home.
They fled, leaving behind everything—including their documents and banking records.
Shortly after, their home was destroyed by bombing.
Mushtaha had two bank accounts, one at the National Islamic Bank and the other at the Arab Islamic Bank.
After the Israeli bombing destroyed her family’s home, she faced immense difficulty accessing her funds—especially in Gaza, where people rely almost entirely on bank transfers and digital wallets.
She started working as a freelance writer in April 2025, and from the beginning, she struggled to receive international payments and access financial services in Gaza.
Because she could not receive payments directly, she used a friend’s account to receive her first payment.
Even then, Israeli restrictions on Gaza’s banking system prevented her from easily transferring money to e-wallets.
While many international publications can transfer payments using PayPal , Palestinians in Gaza cannot use this online payment system.
This restriction has existed for years and has created additional barriers for Palestinians trying to receive international payments.
These broader restrictions , combined with the more recent account freezes and Israel’s decimation of Gaza’s banking system, leave many Palestinians with few options to access their own money or receive payments.
For many, this experience amounts to a form of financial execution : They are cut off from the money they earn and the resources they need to survive.
This is a common experience among writers and reporters in Gaza.
I reached out to a writers’ group with more than 100 members, as well as a number of individual writers.
Everyone I spoke to confirmed they faced similar financial challenges accessing their money or getting paid for their work.
As if the professional barriers weren’t enough for us, writers in Gaza now also face these increased financial hurdles.
Chains wrapped around our lives
Samir Abumodallala, a lecturer at Gaza’s Al-Azhar University and a member of the General Secretariat of the Palestinian Economists Syndicate, wrote that the broader challenge facing Gaza is the ability to rebuild the economy through sustainable improvements, such as strengthening local production and employment.
His analysis points to a painful truth: Gaza’s economy is structurally dependent on foreign transfers and imports.
This dependence leaves Palestinians even more vulnerable to Israel’s financial and economic restrictions, and allows Israel to continue weaponizing the banking system.
Until these broader, unjust conditions change, Palestinians are doing what they can to make their voices heard.
On May 10, freed prisoners, families of martyrs, and other citizens held a protest in front of the Bank of Palestine branch in the Saraya area of Gaza City.
A video report from Palestine Today showed demonstrators speaking out against the freezing of accounts, the lack of clear explanations from the bank, and the broader deterioration in banking services.
Public comments on social media reflected their anger.
One commenter wrote that after “six months of promises,” nearly 2,000 families were paying the price for frozen accounts.
They simply want access to the money that is rightfully theirs, the commenter said.
The protest was a culmination of months of frustration.
Thousands of families remain affected, leaving them wholly unable to control their own finances or access their own money.
Thousands more live in fear that their accounts will be next.
Officials must take urgent action.
The Ministry of Finance should immediately ensure that employees can access their salaries long-lingering in their frozen accounts.
Seven months without access to their earned income is robbery, not an administrative delay.
Banks should also have to immediately provide a written, legal reason for account freezes.
“Security concerns” are not sufficient reason unless backed by a court order.
Finally, the PMA must create a fast, accessible mechanism that allows Gazans legal recourse to challenge unjust decisions.
Citizens should not be trapped in limbo between the bank and the regulator.
These are the most basic actions authorities can take, and they are long overdue.
As for me, after much difficulty, I was finally able to open my own bank account in March, but all of the money I’ve earned since January 2025 remains frozen in my father’s account, alongside his salary and savings.
Freezing the accounts of family members is a form of collective punishment, and it must stop.
Since my father’s account was frozen, I have carried a weight in my chest.
It is heaviest in the morning when I wake, and at night before I sleep.
I feel I am the reason my father’s accounts were frozen.
I know this is not entirely rational—he chose to help me, he wanted to support my work—but guilt is impervious to logic.
I constantly replay the moment the transfer arrived, wondering if there was something I could have done differently.
Could I have delayed the payment?
Could I have found another way to receive it?
These questions have no real answers, but still they plague me.
I don’t care about my money.
I would give every penny I’ve earned for my father to be able to walk into the bank and make a withdrawal from his salary or access the savings he worked his entire life to build.
No amount of money is worth watching my father—a man with a Ph.D. who has dedicated his life to education and service—stand helpless in front of a bank teller who denies him his own money and refuses to provide answers.
This isn’t just about money; it’s about chains wrapped around our lives, preventing us from working, earning, building, and living as full human beings.
My father continues to reassure me that none of this is my fault, saying, “Alhamdulillah, this is only about money and not about losing one of us.”
He smiles, but I see the exhaustion in his eyes.
The fact that he doesn’t blame me only makes my guilt heavier.
The injustice we suffer here in Gaza eats away at me.
Why is it that every time we try to build something—a career, a future, a life— it is torn down?
We’re restricted on every side.
The occupation controls our borders, our airspace, our water, our electricity, our phones, our internet, and now our banks.
It feels like living in a prison, one with invisible walls that you feel everywhere you go.
I cannot forgive what the Israeli occupation has done—not only to my father and my family, but to everyone in Gaza.
This isn’t just about money; it’s about chains wrapped around our lives, preventing us from working, earning, building, and living as full human beings.
The worst part is that we have done nothing to deserve this.
We’ve committed no crime, violated no law.
We simply exist.
For the occupation, that is enough.
I don’t know when this will end, or if my father will ever see his money again.
I don’t know if we’ll ever again feel safe, financially or otherwise.
But I know one thing: I will keep writing.
I will keep telling our stories.
Will it change anything?
Probably not.
But silence is what they want.
And I refuse to give it to them.
Speakers
3speakers5.6%attributed speech2,205writer words
Selected voice
100%flagged-word coverageSamir Abumodallala
17 attributed words13% of attributed speech73% writer coverage
Attribution is sentence-level. Pattern percentages are calculated only from words assigned to that voice.
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Analysis
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