Moment Israeli strike hits Gaza building housing displaced
Video captured the moment an Israeli strike hit a residential building in Gaza City's Nassr neighbourhood after warning thousands who had taken shelter there to evacuate, displacing them once again.
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Al Jazeera
a day ago
- Al Jazeera
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Al Jazeera
2 days ago
- Al Jazeera
‘Did you eat today?': Voices of Gaza speak of starvation and survival
This is not a warning. Famine has already arrived in Gaza. It is not a metaphor, nor is it a prediction. It is daily. It is the child who wakes up asking for biscuits that no longer exist. The student who studies for exams while faint from hunger. It is the mother who cannot explain to her son why there is no bread. And it is the silence of the world that makes this horror possible. Children of the famine Noor, my eldest sister Tasneem's daughter, is three; she was born on May 11, 2021. My sister's son, Ezz Aldin, was born on December 25, 2023 – in the early months of the war. One morning, Tasneem walked into our space carrying them in her arms. I looked at her and asked the question that wouldn't leave my mind: 'Tasneem, do Noor and Ezz Aldin understand hunger? Do they know we're in a famine?' 'Yes,' she said immediately. 'Even Ezz, who's only known war and ruins, understands. He's never seen real food in his life. He doesn't know what 'options' are. The only thing he ever asks for is bread.' She imitated his baby voice: 'Obz! Obza! Obza!' – his way of saying 'khobza' (a piece of bread). She had to tell him, 'There's no flour, darling. Your dad went out to look for some.' Ezz Aldin doesn't know about ceasefires, borders, or politics. He doesn't care about military operations or diplomatic statements. He just wants one small piece of bread. And the world gives him nothing. Noor has learned to count and recite the alphabet from her mother. Before the war, she loved chocolate, biscuits. She was the first grandchild in our family, showered with toys, snacks, and little dresses. Now, every morning, she wakes up and turns to her mother with wide, excited eyes. 'Go buy me 15 chocolates and biscuits,' she says. She says 15 because it's the biggest number she knows. It sounds like enough; enough to fill her stomach, enough to bring back the world she knew. But there's nothing to buy. There's nothing left. Where is your humanity? Look at her. Then tell me what justice looks like. Killed after five days of hunger I watched a video that broke my heart. A man mourned over the shrouded bodies of seven of his family. In despair, he cried, 'We're hungry.' They had been starving for days, then an Israeli surveillance drone struck their tent near al-Tabin School in Daraj, northern Gaza. 'This is the young man I was raising,' the man in the video wept. 'Look what became of them,' as he touched their heads one last time. Some people still don't understand. This isn't about whether we have money. It's about the total absence of food. Even if you're a millionaire in Gaza right now, you won't find bread. You won't find a bag of rice or a can of milk. Markets are empty. Shops are destroyed. Malls have been flattened. The shelves are not bare – they are gone. We used to grow our own food. Gaza once exported fruits and vegetables; we sent strawberries to Europe. Our prices were the cheapest in the region. A kilo (2.2 pounds) of grapes or apples? Three shekels ($0.90). A kilo of chicken from Gaza's farms? Nine shekels ($2.70). Now, we can't find a single egg. Before: A massive watermelon from Khan Younis weighed 21 kilos (46 pounds) and cost 18 shekels ($5). Today: The same watermelon would cost $250 – if you can find it. Avocados, once considered a luxury fruit, were grown by the tonne in al-Mawasi, Khan Younis and Rafah. They used to cost a dollar a kilo. We had self-sufficiency in dairy, too – cheeses and yoghurts made in Shujayea by local hands. Our children were not spoiled – they just had basic rights. Breakfast meant milk. A sandwich with cheese. A boiled egg. Now, everything is cut off. And no matter how I explain it to the children, they cannot grasp the words 'famine' or 'price hike'. They just know their bellies are empty. Even seafood – once a staple of Gaza's diet – has disappeared. Despite strict fishing restrictions, we used to send fish to the West Bank. Now, even our sea is silent. And with all due respect to Turkish coffee, you haven't tasted coffee until you've tried Mazaj Coffee from Gaza. It had a strength you could feel in your bones. This is not a forecast. Famine is now. Most of us are displaced. Unemployed. Mourning. If we manage one meal a day, we eat it at night. It's not a feast. It's rice. Pasta. Maybe soup. Canned beans. Things you keep as backup in your pantries. Here, they are luxury. Most days, we drink water and nothing more. When hunger becomes too much, we scroll through old photos, pictures of meals from the past, just to remember what life once tasted like. Starving while taking exams As always, our university exams are online, because the campus is rubble. We are living a genocide. And yet, we are trying to study. I'm a second-year student. We just finished our final exams for the first semester. We studied surrounded by hunger, by drones, by constant fear. This isn't what people think university is. We took exams on empty stomachs, under the scream of warplanes. We tried to remember dates while forgetting the last time we tasted bread. Every day, I talk with my friends – Huda, Mariam, and Esraa – on WhatsApp. We check on each other, asking the same questions over and over: 'What did you eat today?' 'Can you even concentrate?' These are our conversations – not about lectures or assignments, but about hunger, headaches, dizziness, and how we're still standing. One says, 'My stomach hurts too much to think.' Another says, 'I nearly collapsed when I stood up.' And still, we keep going. Our last exam was on July 15. We held on, not because we were strong, but because we had no choice. We didn't want to lose a semester. But even saying that feels so small compared to the truth. Studying while starving chips away at your soul. One day, during exams, an air strike hit our neighbours. The explosion shook the walls. A moment before, I was thinking about how hungry I felt. A moment after, I felt nothing. I didn't run. I stayed at my desk and kept studying. Not because I was OK, but because there is no other choice. They starve us, then blame us Let me be clear: The people of Gaza are being starved on purpose. We are not unlucky – we are victims of war crimes. Open the crossings. Let aid enter. Let food enter. Let medicine enter. Gaza doesn't need sympathy. We can rebuild. We can recover. But first, stop starving us. Killing, starving, and besieging are not just conditions – they are actions forced upon us. Language reveals those who try to hide who is responsible. So we will keep saying: We were killed by the Israeli occupation. We were starved by the Israeli occupation. We were besieged by the Israeli occupation.
Al Jazeera
2 days ago
- Al Jazeera
‘Flour, fire and fear as I try to parent in a starving Gaza'
Deir el-Balah, Gaza – 'There is no voice louder than hunger,' the Arabic proverb goes. Now it has become a painful truth surrounding us, drawing closer with each passing day. I never imagined that hunger could be more terrifying than the bombs and killing. This weapon caught us off-guard, something we never thought would be more brutal than anything else we've faced in this endless war. It's been four months without a single full meal for my family, nothing that meets even the basic needs on Maslow's hierarchy. My days revolve around hunger. One sister calls to ask about flour, and the other sends a message saying all they have is lentils. My brother returns empty-handed from his long search for food for his two kids. We woke up one day to the sound of our neighbour screaming in frustration. 'I'm going mad. What's happening? I have money, but there's nothing to buy,' she said when I came out to calm her down. My phone doesn't stop ringing. The calls are from crying women I met during fieldwork in displacement camps: 'Ms Maram? Can you help with anything? A kilo of flour or something? … We haven't eaten in days.' This sentence echoes in my ears: 'We haven't eaten in days.' It is no longer shocking. Famine is marching forwards in broad daylight, shamelessly in a world so proud of its 'humanity'. A second birthday amid scarcity Iyas has woken up asking for a cup of milk today, his birthday. He has turned two in the middle of a war. I wrote him a piece on his birthday last year, but now I look back and think: 'At least there was food!' A simple request from a child for some milk spins me into a whirlwind. I'd already held a quiet funeral inside me weeks ago for the last of the milk, then rice, sugar, bulgur, beans – the list goes on. Only four bags of pasta, five of lentils and 10 precious kilos (22lb) of flour remain – enough for two weeks if I ration tightly, and even that makes me luckier than most in Gaza. Flour means bread – white gold people are dying for every single day. Every cup I add to the dough feels heavy. I whisper to myself: 'Just two cups'. Then I add a little more, then a bit more, hoping to somehow stretch these little bits into enough bread to last the day. But I know I'm fooling myself. My mind knows this won't be enough to quell hunger; it keeps warning me how little flour we have left. I don't know what I'm writing any more. But this is just what I'm living, what I wake up and fall asleep to. What horrors remain? I now think back on the morning bread-making routine I used to resent. As a working mother, I once hated that long process imposed by war, which made me miss being able to buy bread from the bakery. But now, that routine is sacred. Thousands of people across Gaza wish they could knead bread without end. I am one of them. Now I handle flour with reverence, knead gently, cut the loaves carefully, roll them out and send them off to bake in the public clay oven with my husband, who lovingly balances the tray on his head. A full hour under the sun at the oven just to get a warm loaf of bread, and we're among the 'lucky' ones. We are kings, the wealthy. These 'miserable' daily routines have become unattainable dreams for hundreds of thousands in Gaza. Everyone is starving. Is it possible that this war still has more horrors in store? We complained about displacement. Then our homes were bombed. We never returned. We complained about the burdens of cooking over a fire, making bread, handwashing clothes and hauling water. Now those 'burdens' feel like luxuries. There's no water. No soap. No supplies. Iyas's latest challenge Two weeks ago, while being consumed by thoughts of how to stretch out the last handfuls of flour, another challenge appeared: potty training Iyas. We ran out of diapers. My husband searched everywhere, returning empty-handed. 'No diapers, no baby formula, nothing at all.' Just like that. My God, how strange and harsh this child's early years have been. War has imposed so many changes that we could not protect him from. His first year was an endless hunt for baby formula, clean water and diapers. Then came famine, and he grew up without eggs, fresh milk, vegetables, fruit or any of the basic nutrients a toddler needs. I fought on, sacrificing what little health I had to continue breastfeeding until now. It was difficult, especially while undernourished myself and trying to keep working, but what else could I do? The thought of raising a child with no nutrients at this critical stage is unbearable. And so my little hero woke up one morning to the challenge of ditching diapers. I pitied him, staring in fear at the toilet seat, which looked to him like a deep tunnel or cave he might fall into. It took us two whole days to find a child's seat for the toilet. Every day was filled with training accidents, signs he wasn't ready. The hours I spent sitting by the toilet, encouraging him, were exhausting and frustrating. Potty training is a natural phase that should come when the child is ready. Why am I and so many other mothers here forced to go through it like this, under mental strain, with a child who I haven't had a chance to prepare? So I fall asleep thinking about how much food we have left and wake up to rush my child to the toilet. Rage and anxiety build up as I try to manage our precious water supply as soiled clothes pile up from the daily accidents. Then came the expulsion orders in Deir el-Balah. A fresh slap. The danger is growing as Israeli tanks creep closer. And here I am: hungry, out of diapers, raising my voice at a child who can't understand while the shelling booms around us. Why must we live like this, spirits disintegrating every day as we wait for the next disaster? Many have resorted to begging. Some have chosen death for a piece of bread or a handful of flour. Others stay home, waiting for the tanks to arrive. Many, like me, are simply waiting their turn to join the ranks of the starving without knowing what the end will look like. They used to say time in Gaza is made of blood. But now, it's blood, tears and hunger.
