Mohammed Mhawish

A few weeks ago, I got a phone call from my friend, Abdelhakim Aburayas. He's in Gaza, in the north. He said, I can't explain the pain in my stomach, in my bones, in my head. I knew exactly what he meant. Right before I left Gaza a year ago, I was in the north of the Strip. There was a blockade then as well. No food or supplies. My son and I were both diagnosed with acute malnutrition.

A few weeks ago, I got a phone call from my friend, Abdelhakim Aburayas. He's in Gaza, in the north. He said, I can't explain the pain in my stomach, in my bones, in my head. I knew exactly what he meant. Right before I left Gaza a year ago, I was in the north of the Strip. There was a blockade then as well. No food or supplies. My son and I were both diagnosed with acute malnutrition.

Now, it's not just the north. All of Gaza is hungry. When I call people there now, all I hear are stories of hunger. The quiet and desperate tricks that people have come up with to survive. A father living in my old neighborhood, a garage, told me his family of five shared a single Snickers bar for lunch. We slice it like cake, he said. We make it a moment.

Now, it's not just the north. All of Gaza is hungry. When I call people there now, all I hear are stories of hunger. The quiet and desperate tricks that people have come up with to survive. A father living in my old neighborhood, a garage, told me his family of five shared a single Snickers bar for lunch. We slice it like cake, he said. We make it a moment.

I talked to a son in charge of searching for food for his whole family, who told me, We boil herbs to trick our bodies into thinking we're full. We feed the children first, then wait to see if there is anything left. Most nights, there isn't. Now I'm talking a lot to another person in the north who does cake. She's 20 years old. A few months ago, she messaged me out of the blue.

I talked to a son in charge of searching for food for his whole family, who told me, We boil herbs to trick our bodies into thinking we're full. We feed the children first, then wait to see if there is anything left. Most nights, there isn't. Now I'm talking a lot to another person in the north who does cake. She's 20 years old. A few months ago, she messaged me out of the blue.

She said she wanted to be a journalist, asked me for advice on how to pitch to news outlets. These days, I message her for updates. I called her on week 11 of the blockade, week 11 of no food going into Gaza. We don't just talk about food. She has ambitions. I asked which journalists from Gaza she'd been reading lately.

She said she wanted to be a journalist, asked me for advice on how to pitch to news outlets. These days, I message her for updates. I called her on week 11 of the blockade, week 11 of no food going into Gaza. We don't just talk about food. She has ambitions. I asked which journalists from Gaza she'd been reading lately.

So you're not reading my work. Okay, thank you.

So you're not reading my work. Okay, thank you.

She did. Huda is a very serious student. She's studying English literature online through the Islamic University of Gaza. First in her class. She told me studying brings her peace. It was nighttime in Gaza when we talked. Nine hours since she'd last eaten.

She did. Huda is a very serious student. She's studying English literature online through the Islamic University of Gaza. First in her class. She told me studying brings her peace. It was nighttime in Gaza when we talked. Nine hours since she'd last eaten.

It's exam time right now. Huda has been putting her headphones on and studying late into the night. I was astonished by Huda's ability to stay focused. Nighttime is terrifying in Gaza. All we could hear was explosions and the sound of drones getting closer. But Huda just studies through it.

It's exam time right now. Huda has been putting her headphones on and studying late into the night. I was astonished by Huda's ability to stay focused. Nighttime is terrifying in Gaza. All we could hear was explosions and the sound of drones getting closer. But Huda just studies through it.

Before the war, Huda was the kind of person who liked to take pictures of what she was eating, especially when she made it. These days, when she gets hungry, she scrolls through those pictures. She said it helps her feel full just looking at them. She told me about a photo of maklouba from 2022, a screenshot of a burger ad.

Before the war, Huda was the kind of person who liked to take pictures of what she was eating, especially when she made it. These days, when she gets hungry, she scrolls through those pictures. She said it helps her feel full just looking at them. She told me about a photo of maklouba from 2022, a screenshot of a burger ad.

She told me she zooms in and pretends she's picking the crispy bits off the chicken. I wanted to have an idea if you've ever been to the market lately and what kinds of things that are still being sold.

She told me she zooms in and pretends she's picking the crispy bits off the chicken. I wanted to have an idea if you've ever been to the market lately and what kinds of things that are still being sold.

Like almost $11 for a candy bar. A year ago, prices were high, but not this high. People still had stored food. There were still some farms. The market I used to shop at still had stock. There were snacks and there were green leaves. Some vegetables. Some green vegetables.

Like almost $11 for a candy bar. A year ago, prices were high, but not this high. People still had stored food. There were still some farms. The market I used to shop at still had stock. There were snacks and there were green leaves. Some vegetables. Some green vegetables.

There was also some coffee. There was also some tea. There was some sugar that we would use sometimes. We can sweeten some water with sugar and we can drink it so it could have some sort of A feeling of a sweet thing that could be enough for the body to feel full at some point somehow. Sugar, is it available? How much does it cost to get one kilo of sugar?

There was also some coffee. There was also some tea. There was some sugar that we would use sometimes. We can sweeten some water with sugar and we can drink it so it could have some sort of A feeling of a sweet thing that could be enough for the body to feel full at some point somehow. Sugar, is it available? How much does it cost to get one kilo of sugar?

A kilo is a little over two pounds. Before the war, a kilo of sugar cost about 25 cents, 30 cents on the high end. When I was still in Gaza, a kilo of sugar was already outrageous, $16, and it was already hard to find. Now, there is almost nothing. Farmland has been wiped out. Greenhouses turned to ash. It's not just the food that's gone. There is no fuel to cook what little might be left.

A kilo is a little over two pounds. Before the war, a kilo of sugar cost about 25 cents, 30 cents on the high end. When I was still in Gaza, a kilo of sugar was already outrageous, $16, and it was already hard to find. Now, there is almost nothing. Farmland has been wiped out. Greenhouses turned to ash. It's not just the food that's gone. There is no fuel to cook what little might be left.

Rice, lentils. There is no fuel to even boil water. There isn't any burning wood around you, right?

Rice, lentils. There is no fuel to even boil water. There isn't any burning wood around you, right?

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry.

I remember the way hunger settled into my body, not just as pain, but as a kind of silence. When I stood up, the room spun. My mouth tasted like metal. My limbs felt heavy, like I was wading through water. I stopped feeling hunger as a craving. It became something else. A slow shutting down.

I remember the way hunger settled into my body, not just as pain, but as a kind of silence. When I stood up, the room spun. My mouth tasted like metal. My limbs felt heavy, like I was wading through water. I stopped feeling hunger as a craving. It became something else. A slow shutting down.

When I first talked to Huda, I could tell she was ambitious. She talked about wanting to be a teacher. She dreamt of getting her master's degree abroad. But just before we talked, she had started to rethink that plan. Because she doesn't want to leave Gaza behind.

When I first talked to Huda, I could tell she was ambitious. She talked about wanting to be a teacher. She dreamt of getting her master's degree abroad. But just before we talked, she had started to rethink that plan. Because she doesn't want to leave Gaza behind.

I was surprised by Huda's question, and I had trouble answering it. It slammed me back to the moment as I was crossing into Egypt. No drones, no sounds of war. People were just living, only 30 minutes away from Gaza. Sipping sodas, grilling on the street, kids heading to school, others coming back from college. The world outside Gaza, it's an overwhelming mix of things.

I was surprised by Huda's question, and I had trouble answering it. It slammed me back to the moment as I was crossing into Egypt. No drones, no sounds of war. People were just living, only 30 minutes away from Gaza. Sipping sodas, grilling on the street, kids heading to school, others coming back from college. The world outside Gaza, it's an overwhelming mix of things.

My mouth is incapable of what it wants to speak. I think it's good for us to be in other parts of the world, to share what is happening back home. But to do that, I had to leave everything behind, knowing I may never go back. My home is out of reach. This is kind of breaking my heart. Huda texted me after our call and surprised me with another question. She asked what I had for breakfast. I lied.

My mouth is incapable of what it wants to speak. I think it's good for us to be in other parts of the world, to share what is happening back home. But to do that, I had to leave everything behind, knowing I may never go back. My home is out of reach. This is kind of breaking my heart. Huda texted me after our call and surprised me with another question. She asked what I had for breakfast. I lied.

I said coffee and toast. These two things are still available somewhere in Gaza. I did not tell her I had one egg, a cookie, and a cup of tea.

I said coffee and toast. These two things are still available somewhere in Gaza. I did not tell her I had one egg, a cookie, and a cup of tea.

A few weeks ago, I got a phone call from my friend, Abdelhakim Aburayas. He's in Gaza, in the north. He said, I can't explain the pain in my stomach, in my bones, in my head. I knew exactly what he meant. Right before I left Gaza a year ago, I was in the north of the Strip. There was a blockade then as well. No food or supplies. My son and I were both diagnosed with acute malnutrition.

Now, it's not just the north. All of Gaza is hungry. When I call people there now, all I hear are stories of hunger. The quiet and desperate tricks that people have come up with to survive. A father living in my old neighborhood, a garage, told me his family of five shared a single Snickers bar for lunch. We slice it like cake, he said. We make it a moment.

I talked to a son in charge of searching for food for his whole family, who told me, We boil herbs to trick our bodies into thinking we're full. We feed the children first, then wait to see if there is anything left. Most nights, there isn't. Now I'm talking a lot to another person in the north who does cake. She's 20 years old. A few months ago, she messaged me out of the blue.

She said she wanted to be a journalist, asked me for advice on how to pitch to news outlets. These days, I message her for updates. I called her on week 11 of the blockade, week 11 of no food going into Gaza. We don't just talk about food. She has ambitions. I asked which journalists from Gaza she'd been reading lately.

So you're not reading my work. Okay, thank you.

She did. Huda is a very serious student. She's studying English literature online through the Islamic University of Gaza. First in her class. She told me studying brings her peace. It was nighttime in Gaza when we talked. Nine hours since she'd last eaten.

It's exam time right now. Huda has been putting her headphones on and studying late into the night. I was astonished by Huda's ability to stay focused. Nighttime is terrifying in Gaza. All we could hear was explosions and the sound of drones getting closer. But Huda just studies through it.

Before the war, Huda was the kind of person who liked to take pictures of what she was eating, especially when she made it. These days, when she gets hungry, she scrolls through those pictures. She said it helps her feel full just looking at them. She told me about a photo of maklouba from 2022, a screenshot of a burger ad.

She told me she zooms in and pretends she's picking the crispy bits off the chicken. I wanted to have an idea if you've ever been to the market lately and what kinds of things that are still being sold.

Like almost $11 for a candy bar. A year ago, prices were high, but not this high. People still had stored food. There were still some farms. The market I used to shop at still had stock. There were snacks and there were green leaves. Some vegetables. Some green vegetables.

There was also some coffee. There was also some tea. There was some sugar that we would use sometimes. We can sweeten some water with sugar and we can drink it so it could have some sort of A feeling of a sweet thing that could be enough for the body to feel full at some point somehow. Sugar, is it available? How much does it cost to get one kilo of sugar?

A kilo is a little over two pounds. Before the war, a kilo of sugar cost about 25 cents, 30 cents on the high end. When I was still in Gaza, a kilo of sugar was already outrageous, $16, and it was already hard to find. Now, there is almost nothing. Farmland has been wiped out. Greenhouses turned to ash. It's not just the food that's gone. There is no fuel to cook what little might be left.

Rice, lentils. There is no fuel to even boil water. There isn't any burning wood around you, right?

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry.

I remember the way hunger settled into my body, not just as pain, but as a kind of silence. When I stood up, the room spun. My mouth tasted like metal. My limbs felt heavy, like I was wading through water. I stopped feeling hunger as a craving. It became something else. A slow shutting down.

When I first talked to Huda, I could tell she was ambitious. She talked about wanting to be a teacher. She dreamt of getting her master's degree abroad. But just before we talked, she had started to rethink that plan. Because she doesn't want to leave Gaza behind.

I was surprised by Huda's question, and I had trouble answering it. It slammed me back to the moment as I was crossing into Egypt. No drones, no sounds of war. People were just living, only 30 minutes away from Gaza. Sipping sodas, grilling on the street, kids heading to school, others coming back from college. The world outside Gaza, it's an overwhelming mix of things.

My mouth is incapable of what it wants to speak. I think it's good for us to be in other parts of the world, to share what is happening back home. But to do that, I had to leave everything behind, knowing I may never go back. My home is out of reach. This is kind of breaking my heart. Huda texted me after our call and surprised me with another question. She asked what I had for breakfast. I lied.

I said coffee and toast. These two things are still available somewhere in Gaza. I did not tell her I had one egg, a cookie, and a cup of tea.