In Gaza, the ongoing Israeli bombardment and ground invasions have claimed over 43,000 lives, with many more feared buried under the rubble. For more than a year, hunger has become our constant companion, an imposed suffering that we never chose. Survival has become our sole focus, and each day the fear of famine weighs heavily upon us.
Our meals have become scarce. We now survive on just one meal a day, often a monotonous meal of cheese, a food I’ve come to despise. The same cheese we have for breakfast is what we have for dinner. I can no longer bear the sight or taste of it, but it’s all we have.
Every morning, my sister and mother venture to the market, hoping to find something—anything—to feed the family. They return with empty hands, their spirits crushed, because there is nothing left on the shelves. At first, we thought the shortage was limited to our neighborhood, so we reached out to friends and family in other parts of Gaza. But they, too, reported the same grim situation: a few cans of food, no fresh produce. The vendors we encounter on the streets are as defeated as we are, their faces etched with despair. They barely respond to our questions, telling us only, “The crossing hasn’t opened yet.”
Uncle Ahmed, a vegetable vendor we’ve relied on since the war began, has seen his business collapse. He used to sell in the main market but was forced to relocate after the bombings destroyed much of the area. Now, in our neighborhood, his stand has only a few peppers, eggplants, and some lemons. The rest of his stock has vanished. He no longer speaks much, ashamed to see us come, knowing there’s nothing to offer.
The Israeli military’s deliberate closure of the Karem Abu Salem (Kerem Shalom) crossing, the only route for food aid to enter Gaza, has exacerbated the crisis. Initially, it was said to be closed for the Jewish holidays, but it has remained shut for over a month. There is no sign that it will reopen anytime soon, and with it, any hope of food aid has faded. We feel stripped of our dignity, abandoned by the world.
Our faces have grown pale with hunger. We can hardly perform daily tasks. One meal a day is all we can manage, and often it’s the same bland food every time. My brother Muhammad, who works at Nasser Hospital, has learned to go to work without eating, as there’s simply nothing left to buy. He used to rely on the market for food, but now he asks us to prepare whatever we can scrape together. Without food, he can’t make it through his long shifts at the hospital.
My mother, who needs food to take her medications for blood pressure and nerve pain, has had to take her pills without food. I worry every day about her health, terrified she might develop ulcers or other serious complications.
My sister’s children, Rital and Adam, constantly ask for food—foods we can no longer provide. They dream of chicken, red meat, French fries, and juice. But we can’t give them that, and I can’t explain why. I’ve started telling them the truth: the Israeli army has closed the crossing, and there’s no food coming in. Adam, at just three years old, doesn’t understand. He innocently says he will open the crossing himself.
When we go to the market, Adam’s question is always the same: “Do you have chicken? I want rice, chicken, and potatoes.” The vendors have come to know him and now ask us every day, “Has Adam eaten today?”
One of our neighbors, a woman who has also lost weight from hunger, came by recently. She spoke of how she survives on only a little zaatar each day, unable to afford tomatoes, which now cost around $20 a kilo—if you can find them. She, too, has begun to feel embarrassed, ashamed to be constantly asking the vendors for whatever food they have left. “I’m diabetic,” she told us. “I need food every day.” But like us, she can only rely on the generosity of relatives who themselves are struggling.
Since the war started, we have witnessed a relentless battle against hunger. We once searched for food in Rafah, but the Israeli army’s control over all the crossings has made it nearly impossible to find anything. Even if we store food, it runs out quickly, and children like Adam cannot be told to ration. The emptiness we feel when our homes have no food is overwhelming.
Now, I no longer crave food. I don’t have the desire for anything—my body feels like it’s giving up. It’s as though my passion for life is draining away, piece by piece. Sometimes we try to comfort ourselves by looking at old photos, remembering the times when we could enjoy meals at restaurants and shop for groceries. It feels like a distant dream, a time when we had food and dignity, when we could live without the fear of starving.
But now, all we have is hunger, despair, and a hope that the world might someday hear our cries. Until then, we will continue to live on the bare minimum, and try to hold on, though every day feels like the last.
