It was 9 p.m. — my favorite time for a cup of mint tea, heavy with sugar. I stepped out of the tent; the only light in the camp came from my phone. I tried to start a fire for that cup, searching for a scrap of paper or a piece of plastic to make the flames catch. Suddenly, the hum of drones filled the air around me, and still the fire would not light. I felt a wave of hopelessness; the tea seemed out of reach. I returned to the tent, hoping I could at least dream of that cup — and of a day long past.
Cooking gas has been unavailable in Gaza for over five months, and electricity has been gone for two years. Now, wood is the only way to cook. But even that has become a daily struggle, a heavy burden on every family.
During the brief ceasefire period from January this year, we felt that life was slowly returning, and we began to rebuild ourselves inside and out. I found myself thinking about my studies again, waiting for the crossing that would allow me to leave Gaza and continue my life. But on the night of March 17, the war of devastation came back, and we were thrown once more into the nightmare of displacement. What I didn’t realize then was that every part of my life was about to become a struggle, even things I once took entirely for granted, like having a cup of tea.
A few days later, all the crossings were closed completely, and the war grew even more brutal. This time, it wasn’t just the bombs we feared — the occupation had started using hunger as a weapon against us. Every day, basic supplies grew scarcer, and prices skyrocketed. Cooking gas, essential for every family, stopped arriving completely.
With cooking gas unavailable, we had no choice but to rely on wood for cooking — and this wasn’t the first time we had turned to it. Back in our large home in Rafah, before we were forced to leave on May 6, 2025, we had plenty of wood to use, all the tools to break it and a big space for chopping. I remember my father and I splitting the wood together at home during that period, our hands blackened and cracked from the effort.
By the end of March, we were living in a single tent barely large enough for my family. The daily challenges began as soon as I woke up: breaking the wood we had salvaged from our destroyed home and stacking it in a corner of the tent, then trying to arrange the pieces so the fire would catch. Sometimes it would take half an hour before the flames took hold, and my eyes would sting from the smoke and the smell of the plastic I used to help it ignite — just to make tea at the start of the day.
This change wasn’t just about a new way of cooking. Everything here has become part of the struggle to survive: a piece of wood, a bit of flour or even a simple trade with neighbors.
After making the tea, which always feels like a small victory for me, I take a cup and go sit by the sea to drink it, then spend several hours on my university studies. A few hours later, my father — my partner in lighting the fire and preparing food — calls me back to the tent so we can get the next meal ready. I return to the tent, break the wood for him while he tries to cook. We spend hours attempting dishes that used to take only minutes. If you take your eyes off the fire for even a few seconds, it dies, and you have to find a scrap of plastic, a piece of string, or a page to help it ignite. Preparing food has become a daily challenge that my father and I face together.
My father doesn’t let me cook, because I often get distracted. I remember when life was simpler — waking up, making a cup of tea without any effort, opening the fridge, taking what I wanted and returning to my room. I remember coming home from university and seeing my mother preparing the most delicious meals for us whenever she had the ingredients she needed. Today, she can’t help with cooking because the smoke from the fire makes her choke. She suffers from severe headaches and bone pain, especially since the necessary medicines aren’t available today due to shortages of medical supplies. Sometimes she laughs and says it’s good she’s not responsible for preparing meals, because my father and I have learned to cook. My father can now make many complex meals, including maqluba, a dish with rice and vegetables and, in normal times, meat. It’s made in one pot and turned upside down (“maqluba” in Arabic), meaning it’s easier than other dishes to cook over a fire.
My mother isn’t the only one who struggles with cooking. My grandmother suffers from asthma and tries as much as possible to stay away from the smoke that fills my aunt’s home. Every time she inhales the smoke while preparing a meal, it becomes a struggle. Her chest tightens, and breathing becomes extremely difficult for several minutes. She used to use a steam inhaler to feel some relief, but now, with the electricity cut, she can’t operate it, which forces her to go to the hospital — a struggle in itself, as transportation is scarce in Gaza and reaching the hospital can be slow and exhausting. When I am there, I try to light the fire for her, boil the water, and pour it into a thermos so she doesn’t have to light the fire again and again. And it’s not just my grandmother; hundreds of people with medical conditions face the same challenges today.
Those who suffer most from the gas shortage are families in which the main provider has passed away or no adult men are present to handle the fire and split the wood. One of my relatives lost their father before the war, leaving only women and two small children. Breaking the wood was a challenge for them, and even getting the fire to catch was difficult. Every day, I tried to split the larger pieces for them and help get the fire going.
By early June, the monster of famine had entered Gaza. The markets were empty, and goods were scarce. We would light the fire just to make a cup of tea — bitter without sugar — and spend hours cooking simple things like lentils, canned peas or plain pasta without any sauce or spices. After that, I felt drained. The smoke had left my eyes sore, my chest tight and my head aching all day. I kept asking myself: Is it really worth all this trouble just for such simple things?
By mid-June, we had used up the remaining wood and rubble from our home, and had to buy wood every day. One kilogram costs $3, and this is not even enough to make a single cup of tea. We started reducing the number of meals each day to avoid lighting the fire too often and using up too much wood. Our daily question, between my father and me, became: “Do we want the gas back or the food?”
Amid these harsh conditions and famine, getting even a single meal had become a struggle. I went from being a translation student to a small-scale farmer, planting whatever I could in any available space, and a fisher venturing into the small part of the sea we are permitted to roam in. This wasn’t about finding a new hobby; it was about finding ways to provide food that would allow my family to survive another day.
These changes haven’t just reshaped the details of our daily lives. They have shattered the very core of our identity and dreams. Many people have lost their jobs, students can no longer continue their studies and futures once filled with hope have turned into desperate attempts to survive in the present.
One of the challenges we face today is the lack of a lighter to start a fire. The one we had ran out of gas, with no way to refill it. We spent an entire day unable to light a fire, as there was simply no source to ignite it. The whole camp had previously relied on us to light even a small piece of paper or plastic. The next day, I went out to buy a lighter. I bought it from a street vendor who had kept a few lighters stored for months. He sold it to me for $30, while it used to cost less than a dollar.
On my way back, I realized that war is not only about bombs everywhere or losing lives and friends. War has become the daily struggle we live through — our daily displacement into the unknown, depriving us of even the simplest necessities, or making them far more complex than they were, so our limited energy is spent trying to attain the very basics of life. War is feeling like a stranger in your own land, and seeing all available goods beyond your reach. War is eating, not for pleasure, but simply to survive. War is spending more than half your day trying to light a fire and fetching water that isn’t even safe to drink. Life here has become unbearably hard.
One day at the end of August, I was studying for a midterm on Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” which was the next day. I was studying by the dim light of my phone, trying to conserve the battery. When 9 p.m. came, I wanted to make a cup of mint tea, with plenty of sugar now that a small supply had reached the market after months of absence. It was a risk — there were only two pieces of wood, and I didn’t have cash to buy more for the next morning.
I remembered this time of day, back when I was in my home, in my room, sitting at my desk, and my mother would bring in a cup for me, smiling. For a moment, I let myself drift back into that memory, but then reality hit. I stepped out of the tent, with no light in the camp except from my phone. I searched for a piece of plastic or cloth and held my lighter, trying to get the fire to catch. I placed the first piece of wood, then the second, but the fire wouldn’t take — it seemed damp. The only sound was the whir of drones overhead. Anxiety gripped me, and I decided to return to the tent. I went back to sleep, unable to continue studying, but resolved to pick up in my dream what I had planned to do at 9 p.m. — with a cup of tea, a day long past and my mother’s smile.
What is happening in Gaza today is a process of stripping Palestinians of their normal lives and everything that should be taken for granted. Yet despite all this, we still try to cling to life. The wood we carry, split and cook with is no longer just a means to prepare food — it has become a symbol of our survival and resilience.
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