Two years on from the war which ﬂattened them, the dusty streets of Beit Hanoun are still lined with indignity.
There’s been very little reconstruction here, so big families who once owned grand houses live under shelters fashioned from tarpaulin and corrugated iron.
When visitors arrive, there’s none of the usual kerfufﬂe of a Palestinian welcome, with gilt-edged cups of beltingly strong coffee and bowls full of fat dates. There’s no running water for a start, and the electricity only comes for a few hours a day. Besides, there’s nowhere for us to sit.
So Hamzi al-Masri stands in front of me, his shoulders slumped in the punishing summer heat, trying to convince me of the wealth of the life he once had.