This is not merely an alert.
Famine has struck Gaza. This is a stark reality, not a metaphor, nor a future forecast. It unfolds daily.
Imagine a child waking each morning, pleading for biscuits that are no longer available. Picture a student attempting to focus on exams, battling dizziness from hunger.
It’s a mother unable to explain to her child why there’s no bread on their table.
And it’s the world’s deafening silence that allows this tragedy to persist.
The Young Ones Enduring Famine
Noor, the daughter of my older sister Tasneem, is just three years old, born on May 11, 2021. My nephew, Ezz Aldin, arrived on December 25, 2023, during the early chaotic months of war.
One day, Tasneem entered our space cradling both children. I asked the question that haunted me: “Tasneem, do Noor and Ezz Aldin comprehend hunger? Are they aware of the famine around us?”
“Yes,” she responded without hesitation. “Even Ezz, who has only known a world of destruction, understands. He has never encountered real food. The only thing he desires is bread.”
She mimicked his childish pleas: “Obz! Obza! Obza!”—his way of asking for “khobza” (bread).
She was forced to tell him, “There’s no flour, sweetheart. Your dad is out searching for some.”
Ezz Aldin knows nothing of ceasefires, borders, or political affairs. All he craves is a small piece of bread. And the world provides him with nothing.
Noor has learned to count and recite the alphabet from her mother. Once, she delighted in chocolate and biscuits, a cherished first grandchild spoiled with toys and treats.
Now, each morning, she turns to her mother, eyes wide with hope, and says, “Go buy me 15 chocolates and biscuits.”
She picks 15 because it’s the largest number she knows, a quantity that seems sufficient to fill her stomach and revive the world she once knew. Yet, there’s nothing to buy—nothing left.
Where is your compassion? Look at her, and then define justice.
Devastation After Days Without Food
I witnessed a heart-wrenching video of a man grieving over the bodies of seven family members. In anguish, he declared, “We’re hungry.”
They had endured days of starvation, only to have an Israeli drone strike their tent near al-Tabin School in northern Gaza.
“This is the young man I was raising,” the man wept, touching their heads for a final time.
Many still fail to grasp the reality: this isn’t about wealth; it’s about the complete lack of food. Even wealthy individuals in Gaza cannot find bread, rice, or milk. Markets lie desolate. Shops have been demolished. Malls are reduced to rubble, and shelves are nonexistent.
Once, we cultivated our own food; Gaza exported fruits and vegetables, including strawberries to Europe, with the lowest prices in the region.
A kilo (2.2 pounds) of grapes or apples? Just three shekels ($0.90). A kilo of fresh chicken from Gaza’s farms? Nine shekels ($2.70). Now? Not even a single egg can be found.
Before: A massive watermelon from Khan Younis, weighing 21 kilos (46 pounds), cost 18 shekels ($5). Today, it would run you $250—if you could find it.
Avocados, once abundant, used to cost a dollar a kilo. We were self-sufficient in dairy products too, with local cheeses and yogurts produced in Shujayea.
Our children were not spoiled; they simply had basic rights. Breakfast consisted of milk, a cheese sandwich, or a boiled egg. Now, they face an empty table.
Regardless of how I attempt to explain to the children, they cannot grasp terms like “famine” or “price hikes.” They only know the ache of empty bellies.
Even seafood, a staple in Gaza, has vanished. Despite stringent fishing restrictions, we used to supply fish to the West Bank. Now, the sea lies silent.
And with all due respect to Turkish coffee, you haven’t truly experienced coffee until you’ve savored Mazaj Coffee from Gaza.
It had a depth that resonated through your very bones.
This is not a prediction. Famine is here. Most of us are displaced, unemployed, and grieving.
If we manage to eat once a day, it’s at night. It’s not a feast; it’s rice, pasta, or perhaps soup and canned beans—items once considered backups, now treasures.
Most days, we survive on water alone. When the pangs of hunger become unbearable, we scroll through old photographs, reminiscing about the meals of a bygone era.
Struggling Through Exams Amid Starvation
As usual, our university exams are online, with the campus reduced to ruins.
We are living through genocide. Yet, we strive to continue our education.
I am a second-year student.
We recently completed our first semester’s final exams. We studied amid hunger, drones, and perpetual fear. This is far from anyone’s idea of university.
We took exams on empty stomachs, under the roar of warplanes. We tried to recall dates, struggling to remember the last time we tasted bread.
Daily, I converse with my friends—Huda, Mariam, and Esraa—on WhatsApp, asking the same relentless questions:
“What did you eat today?”
“Can you even focus?”
These are our dialogues, not about classes or projects, but about hunger, migraines, lightheadedness, and how we somehow endure. One friend states, “My stomach aches so much I can’t think”; another adds, “I nearly fainted when I got up.”
Nevertheless, we persist. Our last exam was on July 15. We held on—not out of strength, but because we had no other option. We couldn’t afford to lose a semester. Yet, even saying that feels trivial against the larger truth.
Studying while starving gnaws at your very essence.
During one exam, an airstrike hit nearby. The blast rattled the walls.
Moments before, I focused on my gnawing hunger. Moments later, I felt nothing.
I didn’t flee.
I remained at my desk, studying—not because I was alright, but because there was simply no alternative.
Starved and Wrongly Blamed
Let me clarify: the people of Gaza are deliberately being starved. We are not victims of misfortune—we are targets of war crimes.
Open the borders. Allow aid to enter. Provide us with food and medicine.
Gaza does not seek pity. We are capable of rebuilding and recovering. But first and foremost, stop starving us.
Killing, starving, and besieging are not merely circumstances—they are actions inflicted upon us. Language can reveal those who attempt to obscure the truth.
So we will continue to assert: We were killed by the Israeli occupation. We were starved by the Israeli occupation. We were besieged by the Israeli occupation.