Since Israel launched its war on Gaza in October 2023, my family and I have remained near what was once our home in the north of the Strip.
Among the first regions cut off from aid and plunged into severe food shortages, we endured the initial painful period of starvation from November 2023 – just a month into the genocide – until a temporary truce in June 2024.
When the flour ran out, we resorted to baking bread from animal fodder and rancid white flour, just to survive.
We lived on what little we had saved. We searched the destroyed homes of neighbours and relatives who had fled, sometimes finding a few cans of peas, chickpeas, fava beans or some flour left behind.
But all of that ran out in the early months. The war has now dragged on for more than 665 days, and everything has been taken from us.
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As harrowing as that first wave of hunger was, the mass starvation we have endured since Israel broke the ceasefire on 18 March is far worse.
Daily hunger
Yesterday, like many others here, our family had nothing to eat.
I woke up to the cries of my seven nieces and nephews, asking for food. The first thing I did was check my phone’s newsfeed, hoping – between the headlines and political noise – to find some sign of a genuine ceasefire, or at least the entry of food trucks.
Food is smuggled like gold. When a young man told me that 1kg of white flour costs 200 shekels ($60), I was not even shocked. Prices have lost all meaning here
The same hopeless reports day after day eat away at us.
I asked my sisters if there was anything to eat, knowing it was a rhetorical question. We ask each other not just out of hunger, but to remind ourselves that food once existed, and that we used to have choices. The answer is always the same: a silent, grief-stricken smile.
I went out to search the streets of Gaza for anything I could afford to buy. After several hours, as I was returning empty-handed, I spotted a young man from afar, his clothes covered in flour dust. I recognised where he had come from: the so-called “Gaza Humanitarian Foundation” (GHF). He had flour – but he was hiding it, terrified of being robbed, not realising that his white shroud of dust was a dead giveaway of the treasure he clutched inside his shirt.
That is what Gaza has become: a place where gangs, sometimes armed, snatch food in the streets – either to resell at outrageous prices or simply because they, too, are starving. Food is smuggled like gold. The young man told me: “A kilogram of white flour costs 200 shekels ($60).” I was not even shocked. Prices have lost all meaning here.
People will risk their lives for a single bag of flour. According to the UN human rights office, more than 1,000 Palestinians have been killed by Israeli forces since May while trying to reach food in the Gaza Strip, mostly near distribution sites run by an American contractor.
Deadly aid
According to the UN human rights office, at least 1,373 Palestinians in Gaza have been killed by Israeli forces since late May while seeking food, mostly near distribution sites run by American contractors.
Those who manage to obtain flour from GHF know they can sell it at any price since people here have no choice. Some sell it just to buy medicine or pay for transport. Others treat it as a business, profiting from people’s hunger.
I bought 2kg of white flour, thinking of the many who could not afford even that. But 2kg barely makes a meal for my family.
Approximately 1kg yields nine loaves of bread. We are 18 people in the house, including relatives who were displaced and are now sheltering with us. Even with the bread, there was nothing to eat alongside it.
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On the way home, I found a man selling lentils. Another man was about to buy the last 2kg, but when he saw me waiting, he stepped back and allowed me to purchase 1kg – at an extortionate 100 shekels (nearly $30). I clutched the bag to my chest and quickly tucked it into a black plastic bag to avoid drawing attention.
I then searched for sugar. My 76-year-old grandmother, Kamila, is diabetic. Last week, she fainted twice from low blood sugar, so it was essential to find some to help stabilise her condition. I knew it would be expensive, but I was desperate to buy even a little.
After hours of walking, I found an elderly man sitting in a corner of the street, carefully measuring sugar on a gold scale. He was also selling an artificial sweetener, sodium cyclamate, a substance banned in several countries due to its health risks. I chose the real sugar: 80g for 40 shekels ($12). A full 1kg costs 500 (nearly $150).
I spent over 550 shekels ($162) on flour and lentils. To obtain the funds, I paid an additional 400 shekels ($118) to a middleman just to access cash. That is nearly 1,000 shekels (almost $300) for a single day’s worth of food for a family – an amount that, under normal circumstances, would be grossly inadequate.
Before the war began, food was significantly more affordable to everyone in Gaza. I was never a foodie, but I ate healthy meals and exercised regularly. I used to go to the gym and have three balanced meals a day.
Fruit used to be my favourite snack. In the morning, bananas, apples, citrus and honey – followed by a cup of coffee – were enough to energise me for a productive day. In those days, everyone in Gaza ate fruit without a second thought. The land was generous: oranges, strawberries, figs, dates – everything grew so abundantly.
Now I can barely remember their taste, with most of Gaza’s farmlands destroyed by Israeli incursions.
Silent death
While there are many days when I cannot buy food, I am still counted among the “lucky” ones. I have paid work as a journalist. I have an ally in the West who sponsors a fundraising campaign that provides me with regular financial support.
Many others, including my family members, have sold their jewellery and furniture, such as wardrobes and wooden tables, to use as firewood, and given up chairs, mattresses, blankets and kitchen utensils – their last possessions – or gone into debt just to buy food.
When I arrived home, the first question my five-year-old niece, Tia, and the other children asked was: “What did you bring for us?” I told them I brought flour. Their joy and little smiles made it feel as though I had brought them treasure.
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I remembered how, before the war, they used to turn up their noses at certain dishes, refusing to eat them and demanding their favourite alternatives instead. Now, they jump with excitement at the sight of white flour.
These children, and most others under the age of five in Gaza, barely remember what life was like before the war. We try to assure them that one day this will end, the bombing will stop, and they will be able to sleep without fear.
We tell them that life is not just about fleeing from one place to another, but that they will play again, go to school, run in gardens, visit playgrounds and restaurants and eat sweets, fruit and real food.
They stare at us as if we are telling them fairy tales. Sometimes, they ask simple questions that leave us speechless – not because they are silly, but because the truth is too painful or too complex to explain.
Mohammed, who is six, once asked me: “Why did Israel close the restaurant? I just want to eat shawarma.”
And days later, in another corner of our hunger, there was Tia. She did not ask anything. She simply broke her tiny piece of bread in half and tucked one part under her pillow, believing it might grow by morning.
She does not know that we, the adults, quietly skip our portions so she can have a little more. When we do not have a single piece of bread left, she sobs quietly in the corner, unable to sleep. She pleads with her mother, Lina, for something to eat. All we can offer her is water and a handful of lentil soup.
This is no longer mere hunger – it is a slow, silent death. We are starving in Gaza.
The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
