The Electronic Intifada 18 June 2025
Finding food is a major ordeal in Gaza.
APA imagesAt the end of our street is al-Sahaba market. It is no longer somewhere to fetch food.
It is now quiet and gray, a place where the people are often greeted with shelves as empty as their stomachs.
Since 2 March, Israel has – with rare exceptions – not allowed aid and food goods to enter Gaza. Famine is once again haunting us.
Every other day, my family gathers around a single pot of either plain lentils or clumped pasta. We only eat to survive.
Seeing al-Sahaba market stirs my memory.
Back in the sixth grade, I used to play football in al-Sahaba street beside the market every afternoon with Mahmoud, Karam, Abdallah and Yazen – my childhood friends.
We played football until sunset when our parents would call us home.
It is the same street where my childhood friends and I used to chase after water trucks, clinging to the back as we rushed late on our way to school.
In college, I would walk that same street at night, heading to Galaxy Café by the sea with my friends Hussien, Islam and Belal to watch a football game whenever there was one.
I refused to take a taxi home. I preferred to walk each friend to their doorstep, one by one, before going home alone.
With the moonlight draping softly over the trees, and the air cool, those late night walks became my little rituals. Moments to breathe.
But now the street to al-Sahaba market leads only to hunger.
Revisiting the market
The last time I was at al-Sahaba market – which was weeks ago – the prices were already soaring beyond reason.
I could only imagine how much worse they would become.
But I wanted to break this exhausting routine and have a dignified meal for once.
In mid-May, I walked down the street from my home to the market, my stomach empty, my face pale and tired.
People wandered through the market with weary faces.
After a year and a half of this Israeli inferno, people are simply tired of life – defeated by the weight of hunger as they search for food that isn’t there.
Coming back from the market empty-handed is no longer surprising as what little does appear is astronomically expensive.
A kilogram of tomatoes, more white than red, sells for $9; cucumbers riddled with holes for $10; onions that look dried from the inside out for $12; canned beef for $15 and small cans of tuna for $10.
At the market, my cousins Abdallah and Mahmoud each run a basta, an Arabic word meaning a simple wooden stall.
Abdallah, a medical student, can’t offer the simple medical knowledge he has or gain new experience on the ground as Israel has put out of service all hospitals in northern Gaza.
Mahmoud, who graduated as an information technology student this January, also has no chance to gain experience with IT companies in Gaza that have been shut down during the war.
There is no stable power source or reliable internet connection, so working as a freelancer isn’t an option for Mahmoud either.
There is no clear hope on the horizon for my cousins – they try to earn a living in the market, but no one is buying.
Seeing them made me reflect on my situation. I graduated with a degree in English literature this February, but I still haven’t been able to find work.
My dream was to become a translator in relief organizations – such as UNRWA, the UN agency for Palestine refugees – so that I can help people with their struggles. That dream has shifted to uncertainty.
I have asked myself whether I should forget my dream and follow the paths of my cousins.
After wandering for two hours, I heard a seller speaking in a way that seemed to capture the attention of the people in the market.
He was an old man with light skin and a bald head – though a bit of gray hair still clung to the sides – sitting in his chair with a cane resting on his lap.
His stall was nothing more than a wooden plank resting on stacked plastic crates – displaying pasta packets, the same tired selection.
I asked someone standing nearby what he was talking about, and that’s when I heard something that stopped me: He was explaining how bread could be made from pasta.
I asked the old man to start again from the beginning.
He explained that the process begins by soaking pasta in water for a full day, then adding a cup of flour to form a dough. Yeast is added before baking.
Yet the expenses remained high – with wood for baking, a cup of flour for the dough and a bit of thyme beside the bread to make it feel like a real meal.
One watermelon, three families
Three hours passed, and I was still wandering through the crowded market, not wanting to come back home empty-handed.
But the sun scorching my skin and the endless shouting of desperate sellers, all vying for attention, gave me a pounding headache. I decided to walk back home.
Leaving the market, I passed by a stall displaying some watermelons.
I paused.
I gazed at them as they brought back beautiful memories of summers at the beach with my family and friends.
Summer used to mean trips to the beach, swimming and moments of pure relaxation – not wandering through the market under the sun for three hours.
I held a watermelon.
I thought of my 16-year-old sister, Jana, waiting at home. I had promised her something sweet from the market.
Sometimes I would see her scrolling on her phone, watching girls her age – outside of Gaza – going to school, eating at restaurants and wearing bright, new clothes.
With no school, she spends her days washing dishes and cleaning the house, trying to help my mother however she can.
I decided to offer a brief taste of summer and buy a watermelon.
The seller weighed it – a kilogram, barely enough – and charged about $10.
I bought it, went back home and carefully sliced it into three portions: one for my family, one for my older uncle’s family – he has eight children to feed – and one for my younger uncle, who has five children.
It wasn’t much. But for a moment, it felt like we were tasting the summer we had lost – and are still losing.
Ahmed Sbaih is a writer based in Gaza.
