media’s Maram Humaid writes about trying to take care of her children while worrying her family will starve.
Deir el-Balah, Gaza – “There is no voice louder than hunger,” the Arabic proverb goes.
Now it has become a painful truth surrounding us, drawing closer with each passing day.
I never imagined that hunger could be more terrifying than the bombs and killing. This weapon caught us off-guard, something we never thought would be more brutal than anything else we’ve faced in this endless war.
It’s been four months without a single full meal for my family, nothing that meets even the basic needs on Maslow’s hierarchy.
My days revolve around hunger. One sister calls to ask about flour, and the other sends a message saying all they have is lentils.
My brother returns empty-handed from his long search for food for his two kids.
We woke up one day to the sound of our neighbour screaming in frustration.
“I’m going mad. What’s happening? I have money, but there’s nothing to buy,” she said when I came out to calm her down.
My phone doesn’t stop ringing. The calls are from crying women I met during fieldwork in displacement camps: “Ms Maram? Can you help with anything? A kilo of flour or something? … We haven’t eaten in days.”
This sentence echoes in my ears: “We haven’t eaten in days.” It is no longer shocking.
Famine is marching forwards in broad daylight, shamelessly in a world so proud of its “humanity”.
A second birthday amid scarcity
Iyas has woken up asking for a cup of milk today, his birthday.
He has turned two in the middle of a war. I wrote him a piece on his birthday last year, but now I look back and think: “At least there was food!”
A simple request from a child for some milk spins me into a whirlwind.
I’d already held a quiet funeral inside me weeks ago for the last of the milk, then rice, sugar, bulgur, beans – the list goes on.
Only four bags of pasta, five of lentils and 10 precious kilos (22lb) of flour remain – enough for two weeks if I ration tightly, and even that makes me luckier than most in Gaza.
Flour means bread – white gold people are dying for every single day.
Every cup I add to the dough feels heavy. I whisper to myself: “Just two cups”. Then I add a little more, then a bit more, hoping to somehow stretch these little bits into enough bread to last the day.
But I know I’m fooling myself. My mind knows this won’t be enough to quell hunger; it keeps warning me how little flour we have left.
I don’t know what I’m writing any more. But this is just what I’m living, what I wake up and fall asleep to.
What horrors remain?
I now think back on the morning bread-making routine I used to resent.
As a working mother, I once hated that long process imposed by war, which made me miss being able to buy bread from the bakery.
But now, that routine is sacred. Thousands of people across Gaza wish they could knead bread without end. I am one of them.
Now I handle flour with reverence, knead gently, cut the loaves carefully, roll them out and send them off to bake in the public clay oven with my husband, who lovingly balances the tray on his head.
A full hour under the sun at the oven just to get a warm loaf of bread, and we’re among the “lucky” ones. We are kings, the wealthy.
These “miserable” daily routines have become unattainable dreams for hundreds of thousands in Gaza.
Everyone is starving. Is it possible that this war still has more horrors in store?
We complained about displacement. Then our homes were bombed. We never returned.
We complained about the burdens of cooking over a fire, making bread, handwashing clothes and hauling water.
Now those “burdens” feel like luxuries. There’s no water. No soap. No supplies.
Iyas’s latest challenge
Two weeks ago, while being consumed by thoughts of how to stretch out the last handfuls of flour, another challenge appeared: potty training Iyas.
We ran out of diapers. My husband searched everywhere, returning empty-handed.
“No diapers, no baby formula, nothing at all.”
Just like that.
My God, how strange and harsh this child’s early years have been. War has imposed so many changes that we could not protect him from.
His first year was an endless hunt for baby formula, clean water and diapers.
Then came famine, and he grew up without eggs, fresh milk, vegetables, fruit or any of the basic nutrients a toddler needs.
I fought on, sacrificing what little health I had to continue breastfeeding until now.
It was difficult, especially while undernourished myself and trying to keep working, but what else could I do? The thought of raising a child with no nutrients at this critical stage is unbearable.
And so my little hero woke up one morning to the challenge of ditching diapers. I pitied him, staring in fear at the toilet seat, which looked to him like a deep tunnel or cave he might fall into. It took us two whole days to find a child’s seat for the toilet.
Every day was filled with training accidents, signs he wasn’t ready.
The hours I spent sitting by the toilet, encouraging him, were exhausting and frustrating. Potty training is a natural phase that should come when the child is ready.
Why am I and so many other mothers here forced to go through it like this, under mental strain, with a child who I haven’t had a chance to prepare?
So I fall asleep thinking about how much food we have left and wake up to rush my child to the toilet.
Rage and anxiety build up as I try to manage our precious water supply as soiled clothes pile up from the daily accidents.
Then came the expulsion orders in Deir el-Balah.
A fresh slap. The danger is growing as Israeli tanks creep closer.
And here I am: hungry, out of diapers, raising my voice at a child who can’t understand while the shelling booms around us.
Why must we live like this, spirits disintegrating every day as we wait for the next disaster?
Many have resorted to begging. Some have chosen death for a piece of bread or a handful of flour.
Others stay home, waiting for the tanks to arrive.
Many, like me, are simply waiting their turn to join the ranks of the starving without knowing what the end will look like.
They used to say time in Gaza is made of blood. But now, it’s blood, tears and hunger.
