The once rich tapestry of goods, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colored fabrics and abundant produce that previously adorned the shops and stalls that now hang threadbare, casting shadows of scarcity.
Offerings of sustenance are scant, confined to a humble array of tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, and the rare glimpse of green peppers.
These vegetables, survivors of Israel’s genocidal violence, stand as testimony to the resilience of their cultivators, reaped before the ravages of war encroached upon their fields.
Trapped within lands now besieged by the Israeli military, winter treasures like cabbage, spinach, peas and arugula are out of reach, left to wither uncollected, echoing the heartache of farmers unable to tend their fields amid the chaos and peril. The void they leave in the market is as palpable as the ache in the hearts of those yearning for the familiar tastes of home that now seem so distant.
We have become desperate in our daily search for bread, in what has now become our life’s primary mission, stripping us of our humanity and dignity. We pretend not to heed the Israeli missiles pouring above our heads; what matters, we tell ourselves, is to provide food for our families. But we are lying to ourselves. We wander out with our hearts trembling, quivering with fear from the sound of every plane and every airstrike. It is an hourly battle for survival.
Everyone I know in Gaza feels lost. We don’t know where to go, and we are constantly questioning if it would be wiser to relocate to another neighborhood or elsewhere in the Strip. There is no longer a functioning government or any authorities to even guide us or tell us what to do. We can only talk to each other.
Palestinians walk on a road leading to the southern part of Gaza after fleeing from their homes in Gaza City, November 19, 2023. (Atia Mohammed/Flash90)
The Israeli army recently published a map dividing the Gaza Strip into countless tiny blocks, some of which it claimed were designated “safe” zones. The map, however, is incomprehensible. A friend of mine, who is from Gaza but currently in Turkey, told me that her family in the Strip were asking if they were in a safe zone according to the map.
All my friends — on the rare occasions that they can get electricity or signal — are also asking about the Israeli map on social media, begging to know whether particular areas are dangerous or not. We know that there are no truly safe spaces in Gaza, but everyone wants to hold on to a glimmer of hope that we can do something to make ourselves safer, that we can have a moment of tranquility amid this horror.
When I recently checked in with a friend in southern Gaza, she responded in tears: “We evacuated from Al-Awda Towers in the northern Gaza Strip to Fakhoura in Khan Younis. Then we moved to Hamad Towers, but it was bombed on Saturday, so we had to leave again. We then went to a tent in a school. Now, we are being evacuated to another place, and we don’t know where.”
When I hear accounts like this, among so many others, I can only be horrified by the collective punishment we are enduring. I fear that it will only get worse, and that the illusion of Gaza’s areas being distinguished by artificial “blocks” will simply enable Israel to justify killing more civilians under the false pretense of having offered them protection.
Trapped in Gaza City, I find myself yearning for my own home, missing the mundane routines I used to complain about in the past. I miss my office, and I miss my friends dearly. The joys of Thursday nights, which heralded our more relaxing weekends, now feel far away. All I wish for now, like every Gaza citizen paying the price of this senseless war, is for the mass slaughter and destruction to stop. We no longer have the energy to bear more loss; it is too heavy to hold.
