It is quite absurd that a bag of flour has become my greatest comfort, a quiet reassurance that we might survive some more days. It doesn’t matter if we find the flour infested with weevils; we’ll sift it, separating the insects. That bag in the corner of our home is the only thing standing between us and the ghost of starvation. I no longer think of a grilled chicken or a dish of green salad; a loaf of bread is all that fills my mind.

From the outset of the war, food became our fiercest battle. When Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant announced on October 7 the cutoff of essentials—food, water, electricity, and gas—I thought it was merely an intimidation tactic. I never imagined that I would end up yearning for bread.

I was naive to dismiss his words. But thankfully, my husband, Mohammed, saw things more clearly. Anticipating what was to come, he began to stockpile what he could: rice, macaroni, beans, and other essentials. He told me the war would last at least 100 days. I laughed it off, saying, “Impossible. You’re exaggerating.” We were both wrong.

That was the last time I remember having a lot to eat.

When the war began, we had only one bag of flour, and we expected it to last no more than a month. Even then, flour was already hard to find. To stretch our rations, my husband, our young daughter, my brother-in-law’s family of four, and my in-laws—eleven of us in total—decided to eat together. Like many in Gaza, we live in the same building, each in separate apartments. We believed that making one meal for everyone could save gas and make the food last longer. The first day of the war saw us emptying our freezers of any frozen supplies before they could spoil due to the electricity cutoff.

That was the last time I remember having a lot to eat.

After those early days, we started our strict regimen. Each of us was allotted a small piece of bread for breakfast and a modest portion of rice or pasta for lunch. Sometimes, we would skip breakfast altogether to save our bread for lunch, but I always preferred to eat my portion in the morning, as breakfast gave me the energy to get through the day.

As for lunch, I didn’t care whether it was rice or macaroni. In all cases, it never filled me. Dinner, if we had it at all, was limited to a cup of coffee with a biscuit or sometimes just a banana, when natural snacks were still available.

Even in the best of times, I never felt full, but I also couldn’t express hunger. My share was my share, and that was all. It wasn’t a normal lifestyle to adjust to; it was pure survival. I used to satisfy myself with the occasional piece of chocolate to give my body a little boost of energy. And even the chocolate, my favorite dessert, failed to please my belly.

Soon, on October 13, things grew even worse. We woke up to the Israeli Army telling people to head to south Gaza, declaring it to be a safe area. We weren’t sure of the news. But just in case, my husband and I prepared our emergency bags—if something happened suddenly, we would head south. We just believed what the Israeli Army said. We were idiots.

On the middle of the same day, I was standing before the window, looking at the sky and hearing the annoying sound of Israeli warplanes. Out of nowhere, I noticed a large number of papers falling all over the city. I rushed to the roof and caught one of the flyers. It said, “North Gaza is a war zone. You’d better head southward for your safety.” I didn’t react. I was just afraid. I asked my husband, “Will we go?”

And he said, “Not yet. We don’t yet know the reality of these flyers.”

Less than an hour after the flyers fell, I found my father and older brother standing before my doorstep, their faces imprinted with fear and urgency. “Get your bags and let’s go, Noor,” my father appealed. I wasn’t sure. Why was Israel pushing us to flee? Would the south really be any safer? I asked that we wait. “It’s too early, baba. Let’s see what’s going to happen.”

Still, I was also scared for all of us. “Are you going to leave?” I asked. My father’s kind voice ruptured the sound of violence raging around us. “I won’t go without you, Noor,” he said. He then got into his car and headed home, to the west of Gaza.

In the end, we chose to stay, convinced that death would find us no matter where we went.

With every passing day, Israel intensified its efforts to force a mass evacuation from north to south Gaza, claiming it was for “safety.” Bombs rained down on every street and building, specifically the western and northern parts of Gaza like Al-Karama, Al-Naser, and Al-Shifa neighborhoods, targeting anyone in their path in order to forcibly clear Gaza City of its citizens. We were caught between fleeing southward and holding on to hope.

I found myself grappling with impossible questions: should we abandon our home and flee to the south with our precious daughter Lya, or stay and face whatever was to come? Would the south really be safer? In the end, we chose to stay, convinced that death would find us no matter where we went. On the other hand, my family stuck to their decision not to leave their home.

But on November 2, just as Israeli tanks were meters away from their neighborhood, my family also decided to flee. Miraculously, under heavy shelling, they made it to Khan Younis in south Gaza.

We faced the constant battle of trying to decide what was better—whether to stay where we were or to flee south. We decided to cling to our homes and fight the expected challenges: death, fear, and even the scarcity of essentials, as securing a bag of flour was a serious matter.

One day while Mohammed was walking on Al-Nafaq Street, a car filled with bags of flour passed Mohammed. He changed his direction and followed the car’s driver. But once Mohammed reached the car, it was already empty. Mohammed pressured the driver to get him a bag of flour, and he finally took Mohammed to the storage and sold him one for 200 NIS (about $55US)—a price far beyond what we used to pay (40 NIS, or about $11).

Meanwhile, Mohammed remembered that his uncle, who had fled his home for the south, had left behind a bag of flour. He called him and asked if he could get it. We had secured two bags of flour—we felt pure joy and expected them to sustain the eleven of us for at least two months.

The relief didn’t last long. Many of Mohammed’s relatives fled their homes in western Gaza to seek refuge in our home, located in the center and under heavy bombardment. The number of displaced people kept increasing until, one day in November, our home had become a refuge for over forty-five relatives, all sharing our meals. Every room in our three apartment building was a makeshift shelter, housing five to fifteen people, including children. We shared what little we had.

Though the rations were ours, we didn’t put ourselves above anyone else. We ate together and endured hunger together. With so many mouths to feed, we had to reduce portions, giving priority to the children.

Yet, famine was still famine.

Breakfast dwindled to crumbs of bread for the children, while the adults made do with bitter coffee or, on rare occasions, a little milk. Lunch was the precious meal; everyone had a small share of macaroni, rice, or soup. When it was foul—a dish made of fava beans—everyone felt grateful because it was the only meal that could make us feel even remotely satisfied. Dinner was often non-existent, unless someone was lucky enough to find something to buy.

I can still hear the cries of children demanding bread from their mothers. It didn’t matter if the bread was plain or filled with something—they just wanted a full sandwich, not a quarter or half. I can still see the sorrow in the mothers’ eyes, knowing they were helpless to fill their children’s bellies. Mothers used to hide some snacks for their children so they wouldn’t sleep without eating something.

Enduring hunger alongside heavy, unbelievable sounds of explosions, some of the relatives sheltering in our house decided to prepare their bags and head south. Though we were heartbroken at the goodbyes, there was a small sense of relief, knowing that fewer mouths to feed would mean a little more food for those who stayed behind. Yet, famine was still famine.

Later in December, the Israeli Army announced plans to launch a military operation in the Al-Daraj neighborhood, where we live, forcing us to flee farther west. My family house, abandoned in November due to the Israeli invasion of the entire neighborhood because of its proximity to Al-Shifa Hospital, became our only possible destination.

Al-Shifa Hospital had been a primary target since the assault on Gaza. The entire neighborhood was thus deserted, with its infrastructure entirely devastated—no water networks, no electricity, and no communication or internet.

When we fled our home in Al-Daraj, we took our rations, but water was difficult to carry. We didn’t anticipate the complete absence of drinking water. For almost seven consecutive days, we couldn’t find any safe drinking water—not even half a liter!

During this time, thankfully, I had two bottles of safe water that I had brought from home before we fled. Fearing my then eight-month-old daughter would contract a virus from unsafe water, I carefully rationed those two liters to sustain Lya for seven days—for her formula, for drinking, and for her cereal, alongside breastfeeding.

Meanwhile, my husband, our relatives, and I drank completely unsafe, salty water. It didn’t even wet our throats; we drank it just to quench our thirst—and I wish it could have done at least that.

Desalination plants were in the then-besieged Al-Daraj neighborhood. Other plants elsewhere were old and in need of maintenance. After almost a week, we barely managed to get one gallon of drinking water, unsure if we would get another gallon the next day. We had to divide the water again; everyone’s share was half a liter. Our food was mainly cooked with salty water brought from wells—generated by some neighbors’ solar panels.

By the end of January, we returned to our house in Al-Daraj, which had been greatly damaged as a result of the Israeli invasion and the bombing of our neighbor’s home. Yet, we tried to wash the walls, to close windows with ripped curtains, to clean the whole house, and chose one good room to settle in. And this is the same thing all Gazans did after their homes were bombed or damaged.

Their taste was beyond one’s ability to bear it, but it wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. If we wanted to live, we had to eat it.

Safe drinking water was available at times. However, white flour was already running out. The situation kept deteriorating until it reached its peak, when it was almost impossible to find even a kilogram of white flour anywhere else but in devastated homes whose owners fled to the south. People in north Gaza thus started to rush to their relatives’ and friends’ homes searching for a grain of flour, even if it was filled with weevils.

From the depths of despair, a reason to persist emerged and wheat flour surfaced. Though we weren’t accustomed to it compared to white flour, its taste was acceptable. However, it soon disappeared from markets because of the huge demand. Out of nowhere, other alternatives also popped up, but they were mainly animal foods: corn and barley, smashed into soft flour. Their taste was beyond one’s ability to bear it, but it wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. If we wanted to live, we had to eat it.

To lessen the bitterness of barley flour, specifically, we would sometimes mix it with grains of white flour—a portion of what little we did have. But soon the white flour completely ran out, leaving us fighting the terrible taste of pure barley and corn flour. For me, the corn flour is so much better than barley. I will never forget the day we tried to please our souls by making a pizza using a barley-flour pie. It tasted like hell, and I felt like an animal eating some grass.

We were forced to eat the green grass that grew by the sidewalks or in empty fields along with our animal flour: khubaiza. After months of fresh produce being absent in northern Gaza, the khubaiza emerged, though in old days, it used to be dismissed as mere weeds. It was something only our grandparents and ancestors used to forage, never bought for money. Yet then, its leaves became a lifeline, transforming into dishes that nourished us when nothing else could. We learned to cook it in various ways: Molokhiya, omelets, even pastries. It was the king of our everyday meal.

As the seasons shifted and the khubaiza waned, April brought unexpected relief. Markets overflowed with fresh vegetables and fruits, offering a respite from months of scarcity. Bakeries reopened, and the simple joy of eating as much bread as we desired felt like a luxury beyond measure. And people couldn’t hide their smiles anymore because of their happiness in carrying a bag of various kinds of vegetables and fruits for their children.

The crisis of the absence of flour ended, as Israel allowed the entrance of a good quantity of flour bags into the northern parts of the Gaza Strip. I thought the ghost of starvation that had been chasing us since October 2023 was gone, and we would be free. I cautiously thought I would no longer be hungry and I could eat as much bread as I wanted. The joy of eating some fresh produce, meat, and chicken did not last for too long, nor did it make up for the days we slept hungry or the food that had not been meant to be eaten by human beings.

Early in May, Israel announced the start of its military operation in the city of Rafah. Thereafter, the Karem Abu Salem crossing—the only commercial crossing through which goods and aid are allowed to enter the Strip—was forcibly closed, rendering the citizens of the Gaza Strip generally, and the north of Gaza specifically, to confront the specter of hunger once again.

Yet, starvation came in a new dress. White flour is here, but nothing else is. Yes, flour is valuable. I know how much it is worth. Yes, I lived days longing for even half a loaf of bread before sleeping. Yes, I dreamed of it.

We had managed to ration a good supply of canned food, as the war taught us never to trust good days, since the worst is always waiting for us. Since May, our only nutrition was canned foods, which was much worse than even I had expected. They taste very bad and are full of preservatives.

The only difference between now and before is that before, I never felt full. Now, I feel full because I devour huge amounts of bread, though I know my body is eroding. I now long for a fresh green apple, a red, sexy tomato, and for a grilled fish with potato. My body is calling for healthy food. My body is worn out.

Six months before the war began, I welcomed my first child, Lya, into the world. She was my joy, filling my heart and days with the pleasures of motherhood. Every little detail about her fascinated me—her toys, her tiny clothes, her sleeping rhythms. I couldn’t wait for her to experience life and taste all its flavors. I eagerly anticipated making her first meals, mashing fruits and boiling vegetables, watching her tiny face light up with new discoveries. But I held back on weaning, choosing to wait until she was ready for solids at six months.

Each day was an exercise in survival, each choice a struggle between necessity and scarcity.

Breastfeeding was a beautiful, intimate bond, and I wanted her to have every benefit I could give. After giving birth, I was meticulous about my own diet, eating only what would benefit Lya and avoiding anything that might cause her discomfort. Each morning before work, I’d pack a lunch box with a cucumber, an apple, a piece of cheese, a slice of whole-grain bread, and a bit of dark chocolate for energy. The long hours away from Lya didn’t deter me from breastfeeding; I made sure to pump milk at work so she wouldn’t miss out on the benefits of breastmilk. I was committed to giving her the best possible start, knowing that breastmilk was both the purest nutrition and the deepest bond I could share with her, even when I wasn’t by her side.

Once the war began, however, our lives were upended. Survival took over, each decision tinged with scarcity. And amid it all, breastfeeding became my internal battleground. I was caught in a relentless cycle, exhausted and starving while feeling an unshakable guilt that I couldn’t do more for my baby, Lya. Each day was an exercise in survival, each choice a struggle between necessity and scarcity. She was growing day by day, with her need for food increasing. I forcibly reduced her share of milk from three times to two and her portions of cereal from three to one, although I rationed a decent supply of essentials for Lya. Days were passing by, and her needs were growing.

On the other hand, rations were running out with no alternatives available in markets or pharmacies. I had no choice but to feed her whatever was around. Some days, that meant giving her bits of macaroni, or rice cooked in brackish, unsafe water. Every bite she took filled me with guilt, knowing these scraps were far from what a growing baby needed. I felt helpless, fearful of what these makeshift meals might do to her fragile body. I tried to believe I was doing my best, clinging to any small assurance that my efforts counted. But in those quiet hours of night, the guilt would rise, and I’d find myself questioning—was my best ever going to be enough?

I maintained breastfeeding, though I always felt inadequate as my own nutrition had dwindled to scraps, leaving me weaker by the day, my energy slipping away. My body was breaking down, thinning from seventy-three kilos to a fragile sixty, losing not only strength but the essential nutrients Lya needed from my milk. Each feeding left me more drained, but I pushed away the thought of weaning Lya. I was determined to give her every drop I could, even as it came at the cost of my own health. I used to tell myself that any small drop was still something—a piece of me I could give.

I kept fighting until I fell in pain. My breast tissue ached with each feeding due to the scarcity of breastmilk, and I knew, painfully, that I had to let go. The day I decided to wean Lya felt like defeat, a moment I had fought so hard to avoid. She was already a year old. I had no choice—I was simply too depleted. I weaned her, and my heart broke, as though a part of our bond was severed, leaving me feeling as if I had somehow failed her.

Amid the turmoil of what to feed Lya and what to make for her in the absence of any fresh, healthy nutrition, some kinds of vegetables started to pop up in street markets brought from farmers who managed to plant seeds in their gardens or lands, especially field pumpkin, which I used to make soup with some rice. The prices are exorbitant, but it’s worth it if it means she can have something fresh. Lya is nineteen months old now, and there are still so many things she has yet to taste—a red tomato, a banana, a strawberry, yogurt. All these small pleasures that most children know are still mysteries to her.

Through every day of this struggle, I cling to the hope that someday, her world will be full of colors and flavors again. I dream of her tasting her first bite of something sweet, of her growing strong and healthy in a life beyond war and scarcity.

But for now, we survive, and I hold on to the strength I have left—for her, for us, for the day when she’ll finally know all the things I’ve been waiting to give her.

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From Gaza: The Story of a Genocide, edited by Fatima Bhutto and Sonia Faleiro. Used with the permission of the publisher, Verso Books. Copyright © 2025 by Noor Alyacoubi. Featured image vua Gloucester2Gaza.

All royalties will be donated to the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA).