On Feb. 29, 2024, we had heard on the news that aid trucks were arriving in northern Gaza. My mother, however, refused to let me go to them and try to get a bag of flour. I disagreed with her because it had been over a month since we had run out of flour in our house. We had not been able to find even animal feed (fodder of barley and corn) that we could grind as an alternative to flour, to make bread; it is either not available, or the price is exorbitant. The situation was dire and every day, the children in our household were crying for bread. They are always so hungry.
She was adamant. “I prefer to die from starvation than to let you go and die there,” she said to me. I reminded her that we are dying everywhere and anytime during this war on Gaza. Many people were killed while they were in their homes, and some while they were sleeping. Others were slain trying to bring water to their families, or visiting their relatives, or recovering in hospitals. “So let me go to bring home some flour — or find anything to eat — for the kids in the house,” I insisted.
She started crying. She begged me to stay home. I finally agreed, reluctantly. But many of my cousins, relatives, friends, and neighbors went to Al-Rashid Street, the area where the trucks were heading. They waited there. Meanwhile, I decided that I would take the thought out of my mind and I lay down for a nap.
When I woke up, I was horrified to learn that the Flour Massacre had occurred. Everyone in my house was very worried about our relatives, all of whom have one thing on their minds each day: to look for food to bring home to their families. My mother greeted me with a mixture of worry and relief and said, “See, Ahmed? I refused to let you go to the trucks. Had you gone, you could have been one of those who were killed. Alhamdulillah, praise be to God.” She hugged me tightly.
I looked out the window at the house across from us. Every day, our neighbors sit in their garden and make a fire to boil water for tea. Today the women were crying. All of them were clearly worried. I was sure they were waiting for their son or husband, who had gone out in search of food. Later that day, I received news that a man from that household was killed as he was waiting for the aid trucks. He was one of those massacred. I felt so sorry for him and his family. We are always mourning with the mothers and wives who have lost their sons and husbands as they braved dangerous streets to find food for hungry children at home.
My own family is constantly worried. I am so sick and tired of our situation. I’m exhausted mentally and physically. How much longer will we be living in this frightening and precarious condition, where slaughter and carnage chase us everywhere? What is our human limit? I could have easily been a victim of the Flour Massacre, one of the people who were lying in a pool of blood clutching a sack of flour. Our situation is so difficult; it is truly unbelievable — unconscionable, really — that Israel is deliberately starving the people in Gaza.
