It has been two months since I last ate bread. Food in the markets has been fading away since Israel blocked nearly all aid into Gaza on 2 March. Following the blockade, food prices skyrocketed. Sugar and flour vanished, fruits and vegetables became a rare sight, and only red lentils remained available in the markets.
Unlike many others who stored food during the January truce, fearing another harsh round of famine, my family and I made the risky decision not to store anything. We had previously done so, but lost everything when Israeli soldiers reached our area with their tanks.
In such moments, you don’t think of food. You forget about your empty stomach and weak body. You just count your loved ones, make sure the number matches what you memorised, and escape.
While we made this decision of our own free will, many had no choice — including the four families from the Shujaiyya neighbourhood now sheltering in our home. The breadwinners lost their incomes due to the war: a taxi driver whose car was bombed, a co-owner of a plastic manufacturing workshop that was destroyed, an electrician who rarely works since Israel cut off power, and a snack vendor with nothing left to sell.
All of the families now sheltering in our home, including mine, are surviving almost entirely on red lentils, just water, lentils, and salt, with nothing else added. We mostly drink it with a spoon. We rarely dip bread into it to feel full, as flour prices have continued to soar over the past two months, ranging from 60 to 100 shekels per kilogram ($7.72 – $14.31 per pound), making even the simplest meals harder to come by.
By day, we introduced a new verb into the Arabic lexicon, ta’ddaset, which roughly translates to “I have been lentilised,” meaning one has completed one of the day’s two missions: eating lentil soup.
At the end of May, news began circulating widely about the US-backed Gaza Humanitarian Food (GHF) initiative. Social media users claimed that every family would receive a portion of flour, sugar, biscuits, and canned food – enough for one week.
Reports indicated that GHF distribution sites would only be open at three locations in Rafah, along the Morag – the Israeli military corridor. Later, another point was to be opened along the Netzarim Corridor, which splits Gaza into two halves. This was the first red flag: why would starving people be expected to head into combat zones to receive food? And why were all the sites in the southern part of the Strip?
My suspicions about the GHF deepened as investigations into the foundation began to emerge. Israel denied that it funds the GHF. However, US government sources stated that the initiative originated from the same state that has repeatedly used food as a weapon: Israel.
But at least for a brief moment, the lack of food made me consider going to the GHF. For people in northern Gaza like me, waiting for the Netzarim Corridor site to begin operating seemed the only realistic choice. Still, heading into what had been a previous kill zone for the Israeli army was terrifying.
As we waited, the Rafah distribution points became operational. The scenes from the first day, May 27, were horrifying. Several Palestinians went missing; three were killed, and dozens injured after Israeli soldiers opened fire on the crowds. Some argued that limited fire was necessary to maintain order, but the subsequent massacres, in which more than 300 have been killed, cannot be justified.
The Israeli army has consistently denied these massacres, branding them “exaggerated claims” and shifting the blame onto Hamas with misleading videos. But for people in Gaza, it is easy to know the truth.
A survivor of the Tuesday massacre at the GHF distribution point in Rafah told me that shortly after the appointed distribution time, Israeli soldiers were near the road to the site, “hunting people as if they were ducks”.
The aid seeker from southern Gaza told me he saw gangs of Palestinian thieves inside the point, apparently “working side by side with the GHF workers” to create a buffer between the pushing crowds and US staff.
When the Netzarim distribution point finally became operational, we were faced with two grim choices: risk our lives to go, or endure the worsening lack of food. We considered the first. Being killed directly by fire felt more merciful than dying slowly from famine.
At first, the men in my family were prepared to go. But the testimonies of those who had already been there changed our minds.
Mohammed Nasser, who went to the GHF Netzarim distribution point on 14 June, the day 59 people were killed near the aid sites, told me that most of those present were gangs of thieves, armed with pistols and knives, looting aid from ordinary civilians. “If they saw a date with you, they’d steal it.”
Nasser added that it felt as though Israeli soldiers were placing bets on who could kill or injure more people. He said GHF workers used tear gas and sound bombs to disperse the crowds just half an hour after the distribution process began.
GHF workers and Israeli troops enabled a system of chaos inside the distribution points. There is no clear or consistent share for each person. Strong and armed individuals take whatever they want, stealing from others in full view of the staff.
The GHF workers, described as “seasoned crisis operators,” have troubling backgrounds. Phil Reilly, CEO of Safe Reach Solutions (SRS), which assists the GHF, was a senior vice president at a US company that committed a massacre in Iraq in 2007.
The foundation is also assisted by another company, publicly known as UG Solutions. During the January ceasefire, UG hired US mercenaries at daily rates starting at $1,100 to inspect vehicles at the Netzarim checkpoint.
Heading to a GHF site for aid means entering a murky operation, set in militarised zones, surrounded by armed soldiers, only to find the site overrun by criminal gangs likely to steal the little you may get.
The monotony of red lentils and the absence of other food have not pushed us to seek aid wrapped in blood and humiliation.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
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