The Electronic Intifada 18 January 2025
The search for flour in Gaza is exhausting. Here two men carrry bags of flour away from a distribution point in Nusseirat refugee camp in the central Gaza Strip on 3 December 2024.
APA imagesIn the depths of al-Bureij refugee camp in the central Gaza Strip, where every day feels like a battle for survival, the tightly packed tents hide harrowing stories.
A ceasefire is due to take effect on Sunday. Israel has been bombing us heavily ever since the news was announced. No matter how it plays out, no one here is going to forget the inhumane ordeals they’ve had to endure over 15 months of genocide.
Perhaps most critical has been the lack of food.
Like countless other families, ours has struggled with the relentless grip of hunger.
In June, at the height of summer, I sat inside my sister’s worn-out tent with my mother, my brother, my sister and her three children. Among them was Hamza, 7, a boy whose fragile frame seemed too delicate for this harsh world.
That day, hunger was our only companion. We hadn’t eaten in two days, and hunger was a gnawing pain in our stomachs.
Suddenly, Hamza burst into the tent, his small face glowing with excitement as he held up a piece of bread he’d found on the ground. With uncontainable pride, he exclaimed: ”Uncle, look! I found bread! I’ll share it with everyone!“
Before he could finish, my brother, Majd, 25, a lawyer in his pre-genocide life, snatched the bread from Hamza’s hands. His face, a mixture of anger and despair, turned toward the boy.
”Where did you get this? Did you steal it?“
Hamza, unable to understand the weight of the question, replied with pure innocence, ”No, uncle, I found it on the ground.“
My brother’s expression softened momentarily, but then he said with quiet determination, “It doesn’t matter. It isn’t ours. It might belong to someone who needs it even more than we do. We can’t take what isn’t rightfully ours, Hamza.”
Bread
Hamza’s small hands gripped the bread tightly as his young mind wrestled with the injustice of it all. But even as hunger gnawed at him, he nodded, rose to his feet, and walked back out into the night to leave the bread where he had found it.
When he returned minutes later, his eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
He sat beside me, his voice barely a whisper. ”Uncle, when will we eat?“
I had no words to comfort him, no promises to make.
All I could do was sit in silence, my heart heavy with the burden of his question: Why should a child like Hamza have to learn such painful lessons about dignity and deprivation at such a tender age?
That night, we huddled around an empty stove, warmed only by the faint heat of a few sticks of wood. Hamza fell asleep by my side, his small chest rising and falling with each breath.
I watched him as he dreamed, and I imagined that in his dreams, he finally ate the bread he had had to give up.
This is what life is like in the encampments, a ceaseless battle against hunger, where even the youngest are forced to choose dignity or survival.
Later that same month but in the al-Mawasi area of Khan Younis, I sat inside a small tent with a childhood friend, Ahmad al-Kafarneh and his family.
Ahmad, 17, sat beside me.
His father, Taysir, 58, a teacher, was injured in his left leg in an Israeli airstrike in April and lay on a modest mattress in the corner of the tent.
Ahmad’s mother was trying to comfort Ahmad’s four younger siblings, the eldest of whom was just 10.
There was almost nothing left to eat – just a tiny piece of bread that could hardly satisfy a single child.
“Flour has arrived at the market today,” Ahmad suddenly said. “I’ll go buy a bag. We heard that the Israelis allowed a small shipment through.”
I knew that the limited amount of flour allowed into Gaza through Israeli checkpoints wasn’t an act of mercy. It was another means of control. The merchants who acquired it were selling the bags at outrageous prices, exploiting people’s desperation and hunger.
Ahmad left, carrying the money his mother had painstakingly saved. I stayed behind with the family, trying to comfort his mother, who whispered prayers under her breath.
White powder
Hours later, Ahmad returned, carrying a heavy bag on his shoulder.
He was exhausted, but there was pride in his eyes, as if he had won a long and grueling battle. He set the bag down in the middle of the tent and said, “This is all I could afford. Tonight, we’ll bake, and my siblings will sleep full.“
His mother approached the bag and carefully opened it. She reached inside, feeling the powder with her fingers. Suddenly, she froze.
Her face turned pale as she looked at Ahmad and then at me, her expression filled with shock.
”This isn’t flour…” she whispered. “It’s lime.“
I moved closer to see for myself. The white powder did indeed resemble flour, but it wasn’t food – it was limestone powder, a material used in construction.
It was a cruel deception.
Ahmad sank to the floor, staring at the bag as if his spirit had been shattered.
“A merchant sold me this,” he said, his voice cracking. “He swore it was pure flour… I spent everything we had.”
His mother placed her hand on his shoulder, even though her eyes were brimming with tears. In a steady voice, she said, ”It’s okay, son. We are stronger than their tricks. They won’t break us.“
But I could see the storm brewing inside Ahmad.
The children, who had eagerly awaited bread, went to bed hungry that night. The rest of us sat in silence, grappling with our despair.
“This is how the occupation works,” I said quietly, trying to find words to console him. “They don’t just kill us with bombs; they kill us with hunger and deceit.”
Ahmad looked at me, his eyes burning with anger.
That night, I realized that hunger wasn’t just an ache in the stomach. It was a weapon used by the occupation to humiliate and break people’s spirits.
Caesar the cat
Our small tent, our entire world amidst the destruction of war, hosts my family – my father, my mother, my little sister Malak, 8, and our cat, Caesar.
The tent, also in al-Mawasi, isn’t comfortable. But it’s all we have.
The sounds of explosions and the suffocating darkness of the nights are part of our daily reality.
As winter closed in, Caesar and Malak brought warmth and life.
Malak saw Caesar as more than just a cat; she was her friend, her companion. Malak would laugh as she fed Caesar small pieces of bread and sang her innocent songs, as if trying to forget the war, the hunger and the death surrounding us.
Caesar responded with soft purrs and gentle nudges, as if understanding that Malak was a child bearing burdens far beyond her years.
At first, rodents were a major problem. They would sneak in at night, tearing through the little food we had.
Malak was terrified of them, and I couldn’t blame her; even I felt a chill whenever I heard the rustling sounds of mice scurrying through our meager supplies.
So, in December, we set up a simple mousetrap, and whenever we caught one, Caesar took care of the rest. Malak, initially frightened of the mice, grew delighted every time Caesar “saved” us, calling her our little hero.
After a few days, the mice disappeared. At first, I felt relieved, but I quickly realized Caesar didn’t understand that.
Every day, she would sit by the trap, staring at it patiently. Malak, noticing Caesar’s longing, would bring small scraps of food and place them in front of her, saying, “It’s okay, Caesar. No mice today, but here’s something for you.”
One day, Malak sat beside Caesar, placing her tiny hand on Caesar’s soft fur.
“You know, Caesar?” she said. “The mice are scared of you now. You’re our hero.”
At night, I would see Caesar curled up in the corner of the tent, her eyes half-closed, as if dreaming of another mouse falling into the trap. Malak would often fall asleep next to Caesar, hugging her tightly, as if trying to offer her the comfort that we all desperately needed.
I realized then that Caesar and Malak weren’t just waiting for mice; they were waiting for something bigger – a moment that would make us feel strong, that would remind us we could still do something, no matter how small, in a world that had taken everything from us.
Caesar waited patiently by the trap, Malak waited for a small miracle, and I watched them in silence, wondering if hope could survive in a place like this.
Waiting is all we can do.
Postscript: On 16 January, an Israeli bombardment struck al-Bureij camp where Bassam and his family were sheltering. The family escaped unharmed, but their tent burned down along with their remaining possessions. Caesar is unscathed.
Bassam Emad is a media student at Gaza’s Al-Aqsa University.
