A dish of rice mixed with pasta would sustain us during the famine in northern Gaza. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha

Life in Gaza was far from ideal before October 7, 2023. It wasn’t the kind of life anyone would choose to live. Electricity was often limited to just a few hours a day, unemployment was widespread even among university graduates, and travel to a nearby country required countless application procedures and often was not permitted.

This was life as usual in the tightly controlled Israeli occupation.

Like many, I complained about our hard lives. I dreamed of crossing the borders, eating at McDonald’s and Starbucks, and pursuing my studies abroad.  

When the war struck, we recognized the value of what we’d lost. The difficult, unfair life we used to complain about became a past to which we long to return. 

Famine

Before the war, I had the luxury of rejecting food dishes I didn’t like. Whenever my mother made something that didn’t suit me, I would simply order from a nearby restaurant.

Now those very meals, along with the most basic food, have become lost dreams for over a million people. 

Famine hit northern Gaza when Israel established a brutal corridor in the Netzarim area, cutting off the north from the south, and placing the region under siege.

You may have heard about the flour massacres that happened frequently in the north. Thousands died trying to get food for their starving children. Israel not only forced citizens to leave the north but also warned the humanitarian agencies to halt their operations under threat of attack. Access to food became almost impossible without putting your life in danger.

During this time, my family was displaced from our home in the Tel Al-Hawa neighborhood to the Al-Sabra neighborhood. Like many northern families, we faced intolerable hunger. Breakfast was almost nonexistent; on good days, we had a small piece of bread. By noon, our hunger became unbearable. Our main meal for lunch was usually a medium bowl of rice mixed with pasta. It tasted awful, but I forced myself to eat it because there was nothing else. Even after finishing, I still felt empty inside.

Once my mother told me that “this dish is a dream for many.” Her words reminded me of those dying every day from malnutrition and the lack of food. I changed my mind about our main dish and decided its taste was more acceptable.

When we could find it, we drank tea together before going to sleep. This ritual was our attempt to fill our stomachs in the absence of real food. Strangely, that cup of tea always seemed like the best I’d ever tasted. I slowly learned how to find gratitude in the simplest moments. Sharing a cup of tea with my family was like a treasure amid the chaos.

Each time we gathered, we talked about the past. My father spoke about the days when dinner meant more than a simple cup of tea. My sister, Noor, always reminded us that she had only one year left to graduate before the war suspended her dreams. My youngest brother, Yousef, imagined himself eating a falafel sandwich alongside his tea. And my mother, always soothing our pains, would remind us that everything would eventually pass.

Our gatherings were not simply for sipping tea, but for recalling moments stolen by the brutality of war.

Displacement and loss

Hunger was only one aspect of our suffering; displacement has become a harsh and unavoidable part of our lives, especially in winter.

We were often forced to flee under shelling and rain, with no clear destination and barely enough time to decide what to take with us—warm clothing, food, thick blankets. My family did not experience life in a tent but found shelter in various places including a hospital, a school, and even in a car when we had no other option.

Whenever the fatigue of multiple displacements overwhelmed me, I would recall the sight of those surviving in fragile tents—a reminder that our suffering, though deep, was not the worst.

This is our reality in Gaza—where even having a roof has become a far-fetched dream for thousands. Renting a house is no longer an option because prices have skyrocketed beyond what most families can afford. 

Our home had been destroyed yet we had walls to shelter us in displacement and a beautiful view of children playing from the window. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha

When the ceasefire agreement was announced in January 2025, we moved from the Al-Sabra neighborhood, where we had been displaced, to a house in Tel Al-Hawa, the area where we’d lived before our home was destroyed.

The house we moved into was partially damaged, with no doors or windows. We covered the openings with plastic sheets and tarpaulins, but these offered little protection. Insects and rodents constantly disturbed us. Yet every time I felt frustrated, I reminded myself that we were still among the lucky ones—we at least had walls around us, while many have been displaced in tents, especially since Israel violated the ceasefire and resumed its attacks in March.

In Gaza, having a roof is no longer a basic right—it has become a privilege. In Gaza, we do not have rights; we are treated as though we’re nothing.

This war not only erased our homes, it has taken away the people we love. Every family has buried someone, or several people, they loved. I lost my grandparents, my aunt, two of my secondary school teachers, and some of my cousins. The losses shattered us, but also taught us that life is short, and we must live every moment as if it were our last.

Counting blessings

Before the war, I wasn’t a very sociable person. I spent most of my time studying, reading, and focusing on self-development. I often forgot that I had family, friends, and people who deserved more of my time.

Now I try to spend every moment with the people I care about, feeling the worth of what I have and preparing to face an unknown future: Will they be with me or will I be the only one left?

When my brothers bother me, I am grateful. When my sister takes my shirt without permission, I am thankful. When my mother shouts at me, I am the happiest. This is how Gazans bear their excruciating pain: They compare it to the pain of others and find the hidden blessings they may have overlooked.

I have learned that I do not need a big house to be happy, or a crowd of friends or a table full of food. True happiness lives in the simplest and often overlooked moments. The cup of coffee you share with your friend, the simple lunch you enjoy daily with your family, the small house you live in, or the constant bickering with your siblings—these are priceless things you should be thankful for because many do not have them.

I am writing this article to encourage you to appreciate every simple moment in your life—even if you’re suffering, there must be something that makes you happy or brings you some relief. If you are in Gaza, and you can walk, think of those who have been injured or who have lost their legs. If you still have a roof over your head, think of those forced to live in tents. If you share a tent with your family, imagine someone who has a house but has lost their entire family.

There are always blessings amid the loss.

And if you are outside Gaza, take a moment to compare your life with ours. Then you can notice the countless blessings you have around.