Yazan returned with a bag of flour after 30 hours away. Shahed was so excited to see him that she could not hold the phone steady for the picture. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh

A simple question—“Has he returned yet?”—takes on a new meaning in Gaza. The inquiry is often about whether a certain young man is still alive, or whether he has died trying to get food for his family.

At this point every person in Gaza has gone through a day or more without food. Not in protest, nor for dieting. It is simply due to deprivation and deliberate starvation.

After the closure of the crossings in March 2025, and because of the continued shutdown for many long months, famine has swept through our land, devouring everyone in its path. Neither the elderly nor the young can bear it. We have lost every last bit of strength that might have remained after a year and a half of war, killing, starvation, and humiliation.

There have been no food supplies in the markets, and if anything is to be found, it is insanely expensive—multiple times what it used to cost. Add to that our complete lack of money. Where could we get money in such a miserable time? And even if we had it, would it be enough to buy anything for an entire family?

Fighting for food

Aid started entering Gaza, but in a new and humiliating way. It is a method that resembles throwing scraps to animals. Animals will fight and tear at the food to claim a piece, and yes, that’s exactly what is happening in Gaza. Israel allows aid trucks in, but only under one condition: people have to gather and storm the trucks in chaos, taking whatever they can grab.

Is there truly no other way to feed us in Gaza?

Young men go out every day and every night, waiting for these trucks, wrestling to grab anything they can for their families. A father leaves his home, bidding farewell to his children and wife, facing three possibilities: he might come back with a little food; he might return empty-handed; or he might never return at all.

Yes, he might die. From suffocation, from gangs, from the bullets of the Occupation, or from the random shelling of tanks. Many have died here in Gaza. Died hungry, afraid, leaving behind grieving families who mourn and starve at the same time.

My heroic brother

My brother Yazan was just 16 years old when he went to these death trucks. My mother strictly forbade it, and my father insisted he stay. But Yazan went anyway. He wanted to bring back something for us to eat. He felt helpless in the face of our hunger and the crying of our younger siblings. So, he made the decision to feed us or to die trying.

He went, and the house was filled with fear. My mother’s prayers never ceased. My father’s anxiety was written all over his face. And I was terrified for him. He’s my little teenage brother, how could he bear such a burden? We feared the worst. Yazan has grown up too soon. He decided, in a moment, to throw himself into death’s hands so his siblings could eat.

That day was long and bleak. Minutes felt like hours. Every negative thought overwhelmed us. Would he return? Would he still be alive? Would he be hurt? Would he bring back anything at all?

So many questions, and the only answer came with Yazan’s return.

After more than 30 hours of fear, waiting, and praying, Yazan came back, safe and alive. He returned carrying a sack of flour. His face was exhausted, his clothes filthy, his voice hoarse, and his body worn out. We all rushed to hug him, as if he had returned from a 20-year journey. His return was a treasure. And our joy doubled when we saw the bag of flour that would suppress our hunger for 10 more days.

Dividing the precious flour that will get our family through a few more days. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh

Risking death to feed his family

Yazan sat down to rest while we looked at him with joy and pride as a hero. But he broke our hearts when he lifted his shirt and revealed a burn on his shoulder, caused by a stray bullet fired from the gun of another desperate young man. That bullet had almost penetrated his shoulder; only God’s mercy had saved him. It left a visible wound. He had been shot, could have been killed, just trying to feed his family.

The look in his eyes was strange, as if he wanted to say, “Why do I and others have to go through all of this just for a sack of flour?”

Yazan bears the scars of his trip to find food—a long scratch from the rough and tumble of the crowd, and a deeper wound from the bullet that grazed his shoulder. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh

I was stunned listening to him describe what happens at those death trucks. I imagined it all like an action movie: a truck loaded with flour, thousands of hungry young men climbing over each other to grab a bag, complete darkness, screaming voices filling the air, and the shelling from the Occupation never stopping around the crowd. Some manage to get a bag of flour, some must go home empty-handed, and others die. Some die of suffocation from the crowd. Some fall and are trampled to death.

I don’t think Yazan, my little brother, is the same Yazan who left that day. I see fear and shock on his face. But will he repeat this experience? Or was it terrifying enough to keep him from ever doing it again?