To eat, we are forced to breathe the poisonous smoke from burning wood and trash.
In Gaza, we have sounds of fear and anxiety. We know them all too well: the hum of spy drones overhead, ambulances screaming through narrow streets, the roar of military aircraft, the thunder of bombings, the cries of people trapped under rubble and now a new sound: the sharp clinking of empty gas cylinders.
We used to know well the tiny click of a gas stove burner starting – that small spark at the start of a day that meant a hot meal or a cup of tea was coming. Now, that sound is gone, replaced by the hollow clang of emptiness.
We used our last drop of cooking gas in the middle of Ramadan. Like all other families in Gaza, we turned to firewood. I remember my mother saying, “From today, we cannot even make a cup of tea for suhoor.”
That is because starting a fire, having even a flicker of light at night could attract a drone or a quadcopter, resulting in an air strike or a barrage of bullets. We don’t know why light at night is targeted, but we know we don’t have the right to ask.
So we ate cold food for suhoor and saved the fire for iftar.
After bakeries shut down due to the gas shortage last month, reliance on fire increased – not just for our family but for everyone. Many people built makeshift clay ovens or fires in alleyways or between tents to bake loaves of bread.
Thick, black smoke hangs heavy in the air – not the smoke of death from missiles, but the smoke of life that kills us slowly.
Each morning, we wake up coughing – not a passing cough, but a deep, persistent, choking cough that rattles through our chests.
As we light the fire, our eyes turn red because of the smoke, our throats sting. The coughing intensifies.
Firewood has become incredibly expensive. Before the war, we would pay a dollar for eight kilos, but now you can buy only one kilo – or even less – for that price.
Impoverishment has forced many people to chop down their own trees. The greenery in our neighbourhood has all but disappeared. Many of our neighbours have started cutting down the trees they grew in their yards. Even we have begun using branches from our olive tree – the same tree we never dared touch when we were young, afraid that disturbing it would cause the blossoms to fall and yield fewer olives.
Families who have no trees to chop have turned to burning plastic, rubber and trash – anything that will catch fire. But burning these materials releases toxic fumes, poisoning the air they breathe and seeping into the food they cook. The taste of plastic clings to every bite, turning each meal into a health risk.
Constant exposure to this smoke can cause severe respiratory distress and chronic illnesses and even lead to life-threatening diseases such as cancer. Yet, what choice do people have? Without fire, there is no food.
There is something deeply cruel about the transformation of the kitchen – from a symbol of family and hospitality into a toxic zone. The fire that once meant warmth now burns our lungs and eyes. The meals cooked can hardly be called that: soup from lentils; bread from infested flour or flour mixed with sand. The joy of preparing food has been replaced by fear, pain and exhaustion.
This lack of cooking gas has done more than cripple our access to food – it has dismantled the rituals that hold families together. Meals are no longer a time to gather and enjoy family time but a time to endure. A time to cough. A time to pray that today’s fire does not make someone too sick.
A place where survival means inhaling poison just to have a cup of tea in the morning.
A place where firewood has become more valuable than gold.
A place where even the simple act of eating has been weaponised.
And yet, we burn.
We cough.
We keep going.
What other choice do we have?
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect media’s editorial stance.
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