A 40-kilometer trek through the hellscape of Gaza to stave off hunger for a few more days.
Civilians collecting aid at a GHF killing field in a sandy area, amidst large crowds, Rafah, the Gaza Strip. July 5, 2025, Photo Credit: Hani Qarmoot
It had been over a week since we last saw flour. Five days had passed since we last had any bread in our Gaza City tent. After the third day, Leen, my 12-year-old sister, stopped asking for it. She simply sat on the mat with her arms around her knees and her legs tucked under her. She had lost hope and energy due to hunger.
Rumors were circulating that the so-called Gaza Humanitarian Foundation aid site in Rafah might reopen. The site was more than a 40-kilometer round-trip journey from our tent in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of Gaza City which is encircled by Israeli checkpoints, tanks, and snipers.
Still, I made the decision to go, as the local charities in Gaza City had completely run out of food. A kilogram of flour was being sold on the black market for 900 shekels, more than most families make in two months. There was no bread, no rice and no lentils, while drinking water was extremely scarce, so I had no choice. The alternative was to watch my sister starve to death.
I put a bottle of water, an empty sack, and a scarf in my bag. I wore my oldest shoes, the ones with holes in them, since they were my most comfortable walking shoes. I was joined by my cousin Mohammed, 25, just a few years older than me.
We departed at 5:30 a.m. in silence. In times of hunger, we do not communicate unless necessary to preserve our energy. In Gaza, the will to survive speaks louder than words.
Most of the streets were empty. Nowadays, people only go out during the day when necessary. Above, the drones never stop moving. As we headed south, we passed burned-out ambulances, crumbling buildings and abandoned schools transformed into cemeteries. The streets had been reduced to sand and dirt or were left in complete ruin.
It was a long and perilous journey. We had to veer off course several times when we spotted Israeli tanks or soldiers ahead. Most of the people we passed were empty-handed walking in the opposite direction as us. The aid point might not open today, a man cautioned us. It hadn't opened in two days, according to another. We continued anyways.
We took an hour's rest beneath a demolished bus stop in Khan Yunis. Sitting close by was a mother with three kids who was giving her youngest the only thing she had, water mixed with sugar. "Are we going to Rafah?" she asked. We nodded. She claimed that she had tried twice but was driven back by gunfire.
We arrived at Rafah's outskirts at 1pm. The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder. The walls were covered in bullet holes. Snipers lined the rooftops while Israeli jeeps stationed behind sand barriers sat perched above us. There was nothing humanitarian about the "humanitarian corridor,” a dehumanizing death trap masquerading as an aid site. People were being herded, surveiled and shot at for sport. Hundreds had already assembled by the time we arrived. The majority sheltered their faces from the sun by sitting in the dirt. There were no restrooms, no water and no shade. Mothers used pieces of cardboard to fan their infants. To save energy, elderly men lay flat on the ground.
There was no process for distributing the aid. No lines or lists, just chaos. No one spoke with us. No announcements, updates or loudspeakers, just American mercenaries and Israeli soldiers positioned behind sandbags and fences. Occasionally a soldier would lift his weapon and aim it at the crowd as people winced in horror. Some fled in terror, only to come back a few minutes later.
Five hours passed until, alas, the small gate opened at 6:30 p.m. No warning was given. People panicked. Some fled while others froze. No one could understand what was being said in English. Then, we heard a warning shot. Another struck the ground close to the front of the group.
On the ground, we found the aid boxes in the open arranged in a line as Israeli soldiers watched us from behind a small hill. They occasionally shot warning shots between our legs, not to scatter us, since we followed their every instruction, but to humiliate us. There was a smirk on their faces, observing us scurrying like animals in a mouse trap. They didn’t seem afraid. What was there to fear? We were unarmed and starving.
Most people waiting never got any aid. There wasn’t enough to go around. Many people traveled long distances risking everything only to leave empty-handed.
Once I secured a box, Mohammed and I set out to return to Gaza City. The air had cooled, but fear remained heightened owing to the thieves and looters everywhere in Gaza. We took side roads through destroyed farms and fields. We passed dead animals, broken water pipes and abandoned carts. A drone followed us for part of the way. We didn’t run. We knew running could get us shot.
It was almost midnight when we arrived in Gaza City. Our legs hurt. My lips were peeling and my mouth parched from thirst. My body was exhausted after having trekked 20 kilometers north carrying that box of sustenance.
My mother let out a gasp when I entered our tent in Sheikh Radwan. My sisters approach us and Leen looked at the box and sat up. She held the bag as if it were a treasure and asked if we could bake tonight.
"Is that flour?" She asked in disbelief. "Yes," I replied. She was so excited that her voice cracked. "We'll eat tomorrow, then?" She grinned as I nodded.
I knew in my heart what was going to happen next. A day would pass with that box. No more than two. We would then experience hunger once more. I would have to walk once more. Perhaps further. Perhaps into greater peril just for a pittance of food to stave off the hunger for a few more days.
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