In my hometown Gaza City, Death and Hunger Have Become Neighbors

They say hope dies last. In Gaza, it’s on life support.

A massive crowd gathers outside a relief agency in Gaza, desperate for bags of wheat flour amid widespread starvation and disease caused by months of siege and bombardment. (Photo courtesy of Mohammed Mhawish)

I saw online a picture of a father digging through the rubble of what used to be his home in a narrow alley in Gaza City. His hands were raw, his breath quick, but his focus was unshaken: he was searching for anything to feed his children—maybe a can of food, a bag of rice, or even just clean water. Around him, silence hung heavy, broken only by the hum of drones above and airstrikes in the distance.

This is what Gaza looks like now. Hunger and death walk hand in hand. More than fourteen months of relentless bombing and a suffocating blockade have made the Gaza Strip unrecognizable. The streets weep, not just with destruction but with the scenes of imminent death everywhere.

People wander through the ruins, pretending they are living a routine, as they search for survival while hope becomes harder to find with each passing day.

When Hunger Isn’t Just Hunger

Hunger in Gaza isn’t just a growling stomach; it’s a battle against time and loss. With the economy obliterated by bombs and blockades, there’s no cash, no work, and no food to buy — even if you had the money. Parents beg for scraps to keep their children alive.

“A few weeks ago, I could find some bread,” a mother of three from Jabalia now sheltering in Gaza City told me. “Now, even that is a luxury. My children wake up crying for food, and I have nothing to give them.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “My youngest, just four years old, hasn’t eaten in two days. I don’t care if it’s clean or cooked — just tell me something will make him stop crying.”

Farms that once stretched green and fertile — fields in Beit Hanoun, Beit Lahiya, Jabalia — are blackened rubble now. Crops rot, livestock is gone, and the winter rains that should bring life instead wash over empty fields. Fishermen can’t fish. Their boats are gone.

The situation isn’t just desperate — it’s horrific. Bread is scarce, milk and meat have vanished, and most families survive on whatever aid trickles in. Even water, the most basic of needs, is contaminated and scarce. Families boil polluted water over firewood, risking despite the risk for their children’s health with every sip.

Northern Gaza, once a patchwork of green fields and bustling markets, is now a wasteland. The earth that once grew tomatoes there, cucumbers, and olives now wishes for mercy under a sky that rains bombs instead of sunshine.

Sickness Spreads Like Smoke in the Air

The destruction has made sickness as inevitable as hunger. Sewage flows freely through the streets, mixing with debris and the stench of decomposing bodies — of people and animals alike. Parents feed their children raw food, knowing the risks but unable to wait for cooking gas that no longer exists.

Sometimes I think hunger is easier than sickness. At least with hunger, people know what it is. But with this? Every cough, every fever — they don’t know what’s killing their children.

Hospitals are barely functioning. Al Shifa and Al Ahli Arab Hospital, the last two in Gaza City, are overwhelmed. Injured children lie on the floors. Premature babies cling to life in incubators powered by generators that could fail at any moment. Without enough medicine, oxygen, or electricity, every patient is a story of desperation.

Doctors, beyond exhaustion, fight battles they know they can’t always win. And when the generators finally run out of fuel, the consequences are unthinkable.

What Was, What Is

Each day in Gaza is a fight for survival, a fight no one should have to endure. For those outside this battered strip of land, Gaza is too often just another headline. But for the people there, it’s life and death. And most often, it’s the latter that takes hold.

It wasn’t always like this. Bakeries once stood on every corner. Fish markets buzzed with life, and families gathered for meals cooked with care. Those days feel like another world now.

I remember spending the weekend on the beach with my family. Now, I don’t even know if we’ll live to see the sea in Gaza again.

I’ve seen a little boy clutching a toy car he found in the rubble. It’s missing its wheels, but that doesn’t matter to him. For a moment, he’s just a child again, pretending to drive. His smile fades quickly, though — his father calls him back inside, afraid of another airstrike.

The contrast is devastating. Every memory of what was only sharpens the pain of what is. Gaza has been stripped bare — not just of food, water, and medicine, but of its spirit.

Surviving One More Day

Every day in Gaza begins with the same question: How will we get through this one? Families sit in freezing shelters, wrapped in thin blankets, listening for the next airstrike. Children clutch toys salvaged from the rubble, too young to understand the weight of the war that surrounds them.

The little aid that goes in, it’s a drop in the ocean. It can neither meet the needs of a starving population nor stop the suffering.

But somehow, the people keep going. We keep going. Maybe it’s stubbornness, maybe it’s faith, or maybe it’s simply that there’s no other choice.

As I write this, I can still remember the sound of airstrikes, the smell of the choking smoke. For my people in Gaza, this isn’t just memory — it’s reality, and it grows more unbearable every day.

Anyway, survival shouldn’t feel, be, like this.