Bread made with lentils. Photo: Ghazal Hamdona

For the third time in less than a year, flour has run out in Gaza. Hunger devours childhood before the world’s eyes. For the third time, children are going to sleep hungry while the entire world watches in silence, as if hunger has become a fleeting headline unworthy of concern.

In Gaza, we no longer ask for safety, nor do we dream of peace. We no longer wish for a warm shelter, a clean meal, or new clothes. All we ask for now is a bag of flour.

Yes, just a bag of flour—something to silence the growls in our children’s empty stomachs, to bring back life to the bread that once filled our homes with love, but has now become a distant memory.

I don’t know if we’ve become used to this, or if it shocks us anew each time: Every three months, flour disappears. And every three months, our hollow stomachs tear themselves apart, recalling the exact rhythm of deprivation.

Has hunger in Gaza become a “season”?

Has the most basic human right—eating enough to survive—become an inaccessible luxury? Our bodies are a trust that we must protect, nourish, and care for. Yet here, we are just souls, chewing sorrow and swallowing whatever foul-tasting substitute we can find.

Lentils have become our new flour. We grind them fine, knead them into dough, and bake them like bread. I won’t speak of the taste—because it doesn’t taste like food. But it’s all we have. I swallow it with water, not because I enjoy it, but because I want to stay alive. I want my body’s systems to keep running.

Some have eaten rotten and moldy food. Some have eaten animal food.

The pain isn’t just from hunger, however. It’s from feeling invisible. Forgotten. As if our suffering doesn’t count. As if our dignity is a political card being played on a faraway table.

We’re not asking to live in luxury. We’re just asking to live—but with dignity. To raise our children without the fear that flour might vanish again. Or electricity. Or water. Or hope.

A few days ago, my mother and I went to the market. We caught the scent of fresh red pepper—it was beautiful, almost magical.

I asked the vendor about the price. She said: “50 shekels [$14.30] per 100 grams.”

My mother looked at me and said, “Better to buy lentils, sweetheart. We can bake with them, and they’ll last longer.”

We returned home with heavy hearts. But, as always, my mother tried to turn the moment into something sweet. She took a spoonful of dried chili pepper, added some salt, and mixed in a bit of leftover tomato paste. Then she smiled and said, “Don’t you think it tastes like red pepper?”

I laughed—and cried. And I hugged her tight.

This is the Palestinian woman of Gaza. She creates hope out of nothing. She builds warmth from scraps. She turns hunger into dignity. In every home, there’s a mother performing small miracles to hide the taste of pain from her children’s faces.

We have a strength here that refuses to die. Children play among the rubble. Mothers bake over wood fires and ashes. Fathers carry dreams along the shattered streets. If wind could speak, it would whisper our prayers that never stop.

Hunger has become Gaza’s face. We’re not asking for the impossible. We’re not dreaming now of cheese and olives or meat or chicken.

We dream of warm bread.