When I walk past each fast-food chain without stopping, I walk with the martyrs, the mothers, and the children who are no longer with us. Photo: Isa Hamdona

In Egypt, I see my friends eat at restaurants that are well known throughout the world, many of which directly or indirectly back the same government that launches missiles into Gaza. Unaware of — or perhaps unconcerned about — what those purchases mean to someone like me, they smile while posting pictures of themselves on Instagram with fast-food wrappers. The money made from such meals is used to build weaponry, surveillance equipment, and drones. While my friends chew on their food, my family members in Gaza chew on dust and anxiety.

When I am alone, I often find myself wondering: How can people be so aloof? What has made them unfaithful to the blood of the martyrs?

However, these are not only questions for them. I am also haunted by them. Knowing what I know, could I ever allow myself to walk into those fast-food chains, drink that coffee, and eat that fried chicken? My refusal to do so is not about food taste; it is about morals. This boycott has its roots in suffering and principle rather than politics. If I eat from the hands that destroy us, I am unable to cure others. I try to maintain my dignity by my acts of resistance, no matter how minor they are. I hope that each meal that is refused turns into a whisper to the world: I remember. I fight back.

In the Egyptian medical school, amid the distant hum of a world quite different from mine, I pass through corridors reeking of antiseptic, students shuffling textbooks, all within the immaculate white walls. I study medicine, which is an act of healing. While my people’s lives are being destroyed by bombs financed by the very corporations that surround me, I study anatomy charts and read about saving lives. The war is in Gaza, as well as in my heart, with every bite of food I refuse to consume, every cup of coffee I decline, and every other silent act of resistance.

Being a Gazan student studying abroad is a burden encased in exile, not a pleasure. In order to help a country where doctors are more valuable than gold, I left Gaza in 2021 to study medicine. I dreamed of a time when I might help war-traumatized youngsters, support families, and even contribute to restoring a broken healthcare system. However, the October 2023 war altered everything. For me, it wasn’t just another headline. Any sense of security I had established around myself was destroyed. The war followed me, permeating every part of my life.

My classmates here in Egypt post pictures of themselves eating at these chains, while my family in Gaza chew on dust and anxiety. Photo provided by an anonymous member of a classmate’s WhatsApp group

Boycotts are easily misunderstood. Some people consider them to be merely symbolic or pointless. To me, they are personal. My heart hurts every time I go past a branch of one of those chains. I picture the debris in Gaza, the kids wailing for food, and the quiet following an airstrike. I think of my family, my cousins who used to play in the yard, who are now either buried beneath what was once a house, or hiding in tents. I recall the cozy, loving scent of my mother’s kitchen, which has since been replaced with smoke and scarcity. When my family is cooking herbs to survive, how could I possibly appreciate a commercial meal? I base every choice I make, even where I shop and how I dress, on the fervent hope that the suffering of my people won’t become accepted.

Seeing other people go about their daily lives while your world is in flames causes a special type of suffering. I don’t hold people responsible for their ignorance, or even their indifference to Gaza. However, I feel the wound every day and carry it with me. I just want them to stop and listen; I’m not expecting them to fully comprehend.

Alienation is a constant battle in exile. Despite being surrounded by people, I frequently feel completely alone. While I study for tests, take part in lab classes, and attend lectures, my thoughts keep returning to Jabalia, Khan Younis, and Rafah. The two geographies of sacrifice and survival are where my soul divides. I make an effort to live my life here, but it is tainted by ghosts that I am unable to put to rest. My heart beats and it grieves.

I refuse, however, to let this pain paralyze me. I try to give it power. I try to give it meaning. Knowing that Gaza now needs even more doctors makes me want to learn even more. I save money, not for luxuries, but to help the people I care about who are still under siege. And I boycott — with all my strength, silently, and resolutely. It’s not simple. However, it is necessary. I am not writing about food, but about loyalty, the moral obligation to stay true to the truth even when the world turns away, the sacredness of memory, and the silent war I fight every day with values instead of weapons.

And so, when I say no to a meal at McDonalds or at KFC, I am saying yes to Gaza. When I turn away from a cup of coffee at Starbucks or at Costa Coffee, I turn toward the families who have nothing left. When I walk past each fast-food chain without stopping, I walk with the martyrs, the mothers, the children who are no longer with us. My small acts may not shake the world, but they keep my soul intact. They remind me that even in exile, even in pain, I still have the power to choose dignity over comfort, and resistance over acceptance.

Learn more about the priority boycott targets of the BDS movement.