Gaza City – Israel and Iran fought for 12 days, firing bombs, drones and missiles at each other, with the United States even joining in the bombing. Then, earlier this week, it stopped.

Last month, India and Pakistan attacked each other, and the world feared the outbreak of an all-out war between the two nuclear powers. But then, after four days, it stopped.

In Gaza, we haven’t been so lucky. The word “ceasefire” doesn’t apply to us – even after 20 months of slaughter, death, and starvation.

Instead, as wars erupt and end elsewhere, Gaza is neglected, slipping down the news agenda, and disconnected from the internet for days.

World leaders that can end wars decisively can’t deliver medicine to Gaza, can’t bring in food aid without daily bloodshed.

That inadequacy has left us Palestinians in Gaza isolated, abandoned, and feeling worthless. We feel humiliated and degraded, as if our dignity has been erased.

We prayed that the end of the war between Israel and Iran would perhaps help end the one that is being waged on us.

But we were wrong. Even as Iran’s missiles rained down on Tel Aviv, Israel never stopped bombing us. Its tanks rolled on, its evacuation orders never ceased. And the daily charade of “humanitarian aid” has continued to kill starving Palestinians as they wait in line at distribution sites.

As Israel’s bombs continued to fall on us, as they have done since October 2023, we watched as Israelis wept over their own bombed hospitals, damaged cities, and disrupted lives.

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“What did we do? Why are we being bombed?” they asked, at the same time as Israel continued to attack Gaza’s hospitals, kill Gaza’s children, and murder those trying to get food.

Hating food

In Gaza, we don’t have wishes any more. I don’t dare to dream about surviving – my heart can no longer bear the sorrow of being in this world, the absence of any future.

We’re exhausted from being stories people read, videos they watch. Every minute: bombing, death, and hunger.

Especially hunger. During three months of siege and starvation, Israel initially steadfastly refused to allow food in and then allowed distribution only through a shady and militarised organisation, with Israeli forces shooting in.

The situation has made me come to hate food. My relationship with it has forever changed, twisted into resentment and bitterness.

I crave everything. I ask myself, “What will we eat? What do we have available?”

I imagine myself at a table full of delicacies, throwing everything onto the ground in protest, screaming through tears not out of hunger, but for my wounded dignity.

It is this hunger and the basic human instinct to survive that drives tens of thousands of starving men, women and children to the daily slaughter that is the food distribution sites.

The hunger dulls every other sense. An empty stomach means an empty mind, a failing body. It makes you do things your brain tells you not to do, to risk everything for a bag of flour, or a bag of lentils.

And all of this – the starvation of 2 million people – takes place in the age of global food abundance. The age of pistachio desserts, Dubai chocolates, cheesecakes with layers of cream, gourmet burgers, pizzas, sauces, and creams.

For the rest of the world, food is a phone tap away. For us, it taunts us, reminding us of our calamity.

Taunted by the tablet

Every time I open my phone to see photos, recipes, and trending desserts, I feel a pang in my heart reminding me that we are not living in the same world.

My nine-year-old daugher Banias watches Instagram reels with me and says, “Mom, every chef says the ingredients are easy and found in every home … but not ours.”

Her words pierce me. She says them with sorrow, not complaint.

Banias never complains. She accepts the pasta or lentils I offer. But the pain is there.

My children watch kids’ shows on a device I bought at great cost, with a backup battery to offset the two-year power blackout. I did it so they could have some joy, some escape. But I didn’t consider what that screen would show them.

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They play songs and videos all day long about apples, bananas, strawberries, watermelon, grapes, milk, eggs, pizza, chicken, ice cream.

All the things I can’t give them.

The device started playing a song: “Are you hungry?”

My heart can’t take it. What is this cursed screen doing?

I rushed out of the kitchen, where I had just finished cooking the same pasta with canned sauce – maybe for the 50th time.

I looked into my children’s eyes. Iyas, turning two this month, has never tasted any of these fruits or foods.

Banias watches and casually says while eating her pasta, “See, Mama? Even the dolls get to eat fruit and grapes and yummy stuff.”

Every moment here reminds me that the world lives in one reality, and we live in another. Even children’s songs aren’t made for us any more.

We’ve become an exception to life. An exception to joy.

The fear of what comes next

And yet, we are still among the “lucky” ones, because others have run out of food entirely.

I felt that growing dread last week when I opened my last kilo of rice. Fear and despair overwhelmed me. Then, it was the last spoon of milk, then lentils, chickpeas, cornstarch, halva, tomato sauce, the last cans of beans, peas, bulghur.

Our stocks are vanishing. There are no replacements. Every empty shelf feels like a blow to the soul. If this famine continues, what comes next?

It’s like walking step by step towards death. Every day without a solution brings us closer to a deeper mass starvation. Every trip to the market that ends empty-handed feels like a dagger to the heart.

And that is just the food struggle. What if I told you about cooking on firewood? Fetching water from distant desalination stations, most of which have shut down? Walking for hours without transport? The cash shortage? Skyrocketing fees and prices?

All this, under the shadow of constant Israeli air strikes.

We’ve disappeared from the headlines, but our suffering remains — layered, worsening by the day.

What did Gaza do to deserve this erasure, this merciless genocide? Wars end everywhere, ceasefires are possible anywhere.

But for Gaza, we need a miracle for the war to stop.

Gaza will not forgive the world. The blood of our children and their starving bellies will not forget.

We write to record what is happening, not to plead with anyone.

Gaza, the land of dignity and generosity, lives a daily horror to survive. And all while the world watches on.