The Electronic Intifada 14 February 2025
Kneading dough.
The seemingly endless nights in Gaza were too long filled with the disturbing symphony of war: drones humming overhead, explosions shaking the earth and constant anxiety.
Before the Israeli attacks in October 2023, I lived in an apartment with my family in Tel al-Hawa in northern Gaza. We evacuated to save our lives and went to my uncle’s house in al-Nuseirat camp in central Gaza and then to Rafah in south.
When an Israeli invasion seemed imminent there, in May of last year, my grandmother, other members of our family and I set up tents in Deir al-Balah, central Gaza.
In these small, tattered tents that became home to so many of us, time bends and reality softens. There I found my unexpected sanctuary – not in silence or solitude, but in gossiping with my grandmother. This became a place where the outside chaos couldn’t quite reach us.
My grandmother would sit cross-legged on a worn mat, her back straight despite her years and the weight she carries. Her hands would expertly knead dough on an old plastic tray. The flour dusted her fingers and the air around her, making her look as if she belonged to another time.
Maybe she does.
She guided 22-year-old me in making dough, deftly shaping the mix as she handed it to me.
“It’s your turn, habibti,” she would say. I took it, putting every ounce of determination and strength to prove I could handle the task. My back ached from leaning in, and I muttered, “I’m not sure who feels 78 here.”
Sharing secrets
One evening, my grandmother smirked at me. She then leaned forward and lowered her voice as if she were going to unleash a big secret. She told me about the guy in the next tent, Muhammed, who had been accused of theft. But the matter turned out to be much more intriguing than that.
He has gotten married for the third time, my grandmother said. And the way she knew about that was mindblowing. “I watched his wedding on TikTok. He shares everything there, even at war times. He never stops,” she said.
She laughed, a sound so full and warm it pushed back the cold seeping through the tent’s walls. For a moment, the world outside disappeared, and just the two of us shared a joke that seemed absurd in the face of apocalypse.
This has been our therapy.
In Gaza, many speak of needing counseling after all they have gone through, but few get professional help.
Luckily, my grandmother and I had these sessions – our escape into stories, memories and humor. They were the threads that held us together, keeping us sane while everything else crumbled.
Our gossip isn’t always light, however.
Stories that bind
There are moments when her stories pull me into the past, into her experiences of war and loss.
“When I was your age,” she said one evening, “we used to hide during the shelling. No phones, no news. Just waiting.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“We have phones now,” I replied, “but all they do is show us the destruction and death. Sometimes I think your silence was kinder.”
My grandmother placed her soft but firm hand on mine.
“But you, habibti, you have noodles. Quick, easy noodles,” she said.
My grandmother at first refused to try instant noodles – one of the few foods that was consistently allowed in over Israel’s 15-month long genocidal assault on Gaza. She thought they were something only a lazy woman would cook. But once she did, she was hooked, especially when she followed the noodles with a cup of cappuccino.
Ironically, Israel let in goods like noodles, nuts and cappuccino, while banning vegetables, fruits and seemingly every other healthy food. I like noodles. But this is not the type of food starving people need.
Lessons learned
When my grandmother told me stories about her youth – walking miles to fetch water, fighting with her siblings over the last piece of za’atar or surviving the Nakba – I’m transported to a world I can imagine precisely. These days I often think we’re floating somewhere between her past and my present.
My grandmother has taught me things I never thought I’d need to know. Among them are how to wash clothes ny hand: “Rub harder,” she instructed one day, with her hands guiding mine in the soapy water.
She taught me how to stretch a handful of flour into enough dough for a family.
I, in return, have taught her about social media: how to scroll through Facebook and even how to take selfies, although she always hides behind her hands, saying, “No one wants to see this old face.”
I have tried not to laugh when she insists on posting cryptic Facebook posts: “Bread is life. If you know, you know.”
Quieter were the days when she showed me the art of making maftoul, a paste made from flour. With meticulous care, she rolls tiny grains in oil. She calls it a trick, but it feels like magic, the way she can turn so little into something that sustains us, whispering her secret technique into the rhythm of the wrinkles of her hands.
My first experience with a donkey cart was farcical. The donkey moved so slowly that I eventually asked the driver to stop, deciding to walk instead. I found myself secretly racing the donkey, wondering who would get to my destination first.
Over time, I started to get the hang of donkeys. I learned to judge which donkey might be faster based on the size and angle of its ears. And, on a lucky day, I might come across a cart pulled by a horse – basically the VIP experience.
Lasting memories
When I told my grandmother about my experiences with donkeys, she smiled a smile that held a thousand untold tales. “The cart,” she said, her voice mixed with nostalgia, “it’s part of our lives, part of our memories.”
It was clear that my grandmother had walked this path long before me. It was as if she saw a younger version of herself in my story. It made me realize how much these little moments, as ridiculous as they may seem, carry a history that connects us in ways we don’t always notice.
I now realize how much the past 15 months have taken and given. They stole our home, our sense of security and many dreams. But they’ve also given me these moments with my grandmother, these glimpses into a life I might never have understood otherwise.
Our tent became both our refuge and our reality. After we lost our home, it was the only shelter we could find. It was cramped, it leaked when it rained and the wind howled through the seams. But it’s where we built a strange kind of routine.
Outside, the world now starts to rebuild. My grandmother has returned to her house in Rafah, which was partially destroyed. She lives there with her two daughters and a son. My immediate family and I remain in our tent. But I will always remember how my grandmother and I created something stronger than fear – a bond, a refuge and a way to survive.
In that tent, surrounded by the shadows of a life we once knew, we were not just grandmother and granddaughter: we were time travellers, storytellers and survivors. And for a little while, that was enough.
Eman Eid is a translator and writer based in Gaza.
