we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
This basic food staple has undergone the surreal transformation into both lifeline and symbol of a disappearing homeland.
A single meal every day. One loaf of bread, spread out over the hours. Photo: Noor Abu Mariam
The dead cannot be buried.
No time to take this in.
Survival swallows up all time.
I look for a stale piece of bread or a handful of wheat.
Feelings of hunger now overshadow my fears
as I make my way home.
Are we free?
If so, why do they make a death prison of our country?
My skull is split by dizziness more powerful than any bomb.
I examine a piece of bread, shaped like Palestine.
It takes my breath.
I’m not fed; I am consumed by it.
Silently, I sense death coming.
It will arrive any minute and take away all I’m going through.
Too many times each day, I hear this sentence.
Every half hour, tiny bodies murmur it — until it resonates in my heart more profoundly than hunger itself.
The absence of protein weakens our bodies.
Food only delays collapse; it no longer nourishes.
These days, mothers forbid their kids to run or play — not to keep them safe, but to keep them from expending energy, from starving.
A single meal every day.
One loaf of bread, spread out over the hours, not because we choose to fast, but because we are starved.
Food is now my adversary.
No longer do I talk about cravings.
I eat solely to stay alive.
After a lot of hesitation, I went to see my friend.
It no longer feels safe to leave the house because any street can be attacked at any time.
Safety does not exist anymore.
I normally stay away from depressing topics with my close friends.
We can only maintain some kind of sanity in this way.
However, Shams spoke out this time:
“You know what? I used the last of our flour to bake today.”
We had a silence rule for these situations, so we sought to shift the conversation.
I was unable to unhear her remarks, though.
The remaining flour…
Like an echo in an empty pot, her words lingered in my mind.
She has no more.
I have enough to last another week.
How many people in Gaza, like Shams, are left without food? How many kids sleep dreaming about bread?
Her words, “I kneaded the last bit of flour,” reverberated louder than any explosion.
It wasn’t just about food; it was about the loss of routine, dignity, and normalcy. In Gaza, we’re not just running out of bread; we’re running out of time, and out of being seen.
Hunger is no longer a short-term crisis; it is a systematic policy — an unseen weapon the occupation uses to wear us out and expel us.
“Do aid trucks not enter?”
They present that picture to the world. However, the truth is different.
Aid is distributed selectively, delayed, or blocked.
Occasionally it is sabotaged purposely.
“Why are people requesting money?”
Because prices rise when products become scarce.
Potatoes and tomatoes are now luxury goods.
“How many meals a day do people eat?”
Only one. If flour is present, it’s usually just bread.
“How about water?”
Our water isn’t clean.
We refer to it as Makrot, which is the local term for subpar water.
It tastes metallic and unpleasant.
It fills the emptiness; it doesn’t quench thirst.
Talk.
Demonstrate.
Be honest about Gaza
Tell our stories.
If at all possible, send funds to organizations or individuals you trust.
Even a small amount can mean one more day of life.
