‘Are We Still Human?’ Trying to Escape Hell in Gaza

Palestinian law student, Fatima Shaat, writes amid genocide in Gaza.

Zain and I try, in every way we can, to escape this reality—the hunger, the looming death that waits around every corner. Zain, my friend whom I met during the truce while working. Our bond grew quickly, as if we had always known each other. Together, we try to run away from the weight of it all.

We sit together, sharing a cup of coffee or Nescafé—precious things in times of war. You don’t find them easily, and if you do, you pay dearly for them. We talk about everything. I tell her how dull work feels without her. I count the days, waiting for the war to end so we can return to share working hours, and live through hunger together. Back then, when we were hungry, we’d sometimes leave work just to look for something tasty to eat. We’d argue and laugh over what to eat that day, until we finally agreed on something.

We remember every flavour, every plate we shared, and we ache for every moment that once felt full of life. Now, we eat not because we love food, but because we have to—just to survive one more day. Appetite doesn’t exist anymore. Desire is gone. All that remains is survival.

And in our desperate attempts to flee reality, I find I can’t escape our hunger, our pain, or our longing for the simplest pieces of life.

Zain and I worked at a point inside a supermarket, our job was to help people create electronic wallets so they could receive aid codes from international organizations. It had nothing to do with our fields of study. But it was our way to escape the crushing emptiness of lives that had been stolen from us, lives once filled with meaning, with routine, with small but precious activities.

Our work wasn’t easy, not because of the tasks themselves, but because it brought us face to face with every kind of person, from every walk of life. Each one carried a story. And through the nature of our work, moments of sharing would bloom between us and the people we served, fleeting conversations that held entire lifetimes of pain.

They would tell us about life under the shadow of war—their suffering, their displacement, and their need for money - money they never imagined they would one day have to ask for from an international organisation.

I always remember: we were once a simple people who loved life, who rejoiced in the little things. We loved food. We cared deeply about the details of our homes. In Gaza, even the simplest families had their own food traditions. Every home had a dish it proudly served on Thursday or Friday night, and every family had a house they carefully chose, nurtured, and poured their years into.

Now, all we share is pain.

A mother tells us she left behind her favourite set of plates in a home that no longer exists. A father says he lost everything—his house, his memories. A young man comes to receive aid in place of his martyred father. Another comes representing his brother’s family, which “no longer exists”. A child stands in for his mother, who can no longer walk due to an injury. And a little girl clings to her father's leg, waiting for aid so she can eat a "normal meal"—something that has now become a distant dream.

Broken spirits

We are a people who lived with dignity. Now we survive with broken spirits.

Still, Gaza remains generous. Her people are lovers of life who rushed toward living with open arms. The world met them with brutality, with bombs.

I don’t excuse anyone. I blame the entire world. And I blame myself - for belonging to it.

But I try to comfort myself. I tell myself, "Fatoom, you're from Gaza. Gaza, the mother of life, the mother of humanity. Only Gaza deserves life."

It hurts that I can no longer talk with my people about the simplest things. I can't ask someone what their favourite dish is, or where they like to go, or what their next holiday plan might be. I fear I’ll awaken a wound that hasn’t healed. I can’t ask a mother how many children she has—she might have lost one… or all. I can’t ask a father where his home is, or why he chose that area—he may have spent a lifetime building a house that is now dust.

I can’t even ask a child about her favourite toy, or the color of her dress, because I don’t want to see the sorrow in her eyes.

I try to act like a normal person, but I can’t.

Every conversation ends with a pained smile, and I say, “May Allah reward us with heaven—with something more beautiful than what we’ve lost.” I no longer believe this world can give us anything better.

I cry for my pain, my helplessness, my despair. I cry for my people. I miss a past that will never return. I cry for a wound that won’t heal, for a home that’s no more, for a flower that wilted under the rubble.

I cry for Gaza… our bleeding city that will not recover.

Despite everything, Zain and I continued working with dedication. Our shift started at 9am and ended at 4pm. Our job began in February, with the truce—a period that brought back a sliver of life and stirred our appetite for everything we had missed.

Each day, we’d wonder what we should eat from the supermarket. Each day surprised us with a new product on the shelf. We would look at each other with wide eyes and say, “My God! I haven’t seen this since before the war!” We missed the taste. We would buy it, savour it as if we were reclaiming a missing piece of our past. After work, we’d go out together for a warm meal. Not just because we were tired, but because we deeply missed the simple pleasure of a fast-food meal—something that used to feel so ordinary.

The nightmare

We kept working. Until the night of 18 March.

That night, the war shattered the truce. We woke to the sound of death. The bombs rained down and we knew—the truce was finished. Death had returned.

I woke to the sound of rockets and I saw missed calls from Zain. I tried calling her back, but it wasn’t going through. The signal was weak. But I managed to send a message: "Zain...can you hear what's happening? Zain, where is this?"

From that moment, the nightmare began.

We stopped working for two days. Then I returned. Alone this time. Zain couldn’t come back because of the circumstances. I cursed the war.

When I returned to the supermarket I watched it slowly empty of everything. This place, once full of food and our laughter, was now silent. The shelves were now coated in dust.

Now, as war continues to ravage us, even the illusion of reclaiming those moments has been destroyed.

Once, we tried, even just a little, to move forward. During the brief ceasefires, we shed countless tears, but we also tried to smile, to hold on to life. We searched for whatever scraps of normalcy remained. We cooked the best meals we could manage, desperate to taste something familiar after months of deprivation. We roamed the markets, buying things recklessly, knowing our budgets had already suffered too much under the weight of this war. We tried, in the smallest ways, to bring back glimpses of the days we lost.

Every time we prepared a beloved dish or found an item in the market that reminded us of home, we would exclaim, "Just like the one we had in our house! Remember when we made this meal? Oh, it's been so long since we saw this brand of chips in the market! Do you remember that night we stayed up in the garden under the moonlight?"

We tried. Now, it’s difficult to even try.

Until now, nothing new has entered the market. Zain and I crave food. Not just us. All of Gaza does. We dream of bread. We miss cheese. Chocolate. Chips. Chicken. Cola. We miss everything.

Me and Zain still try our hardest to escape everything. We sit in a café, trying to talk about anything unrelated to war. We want to forget. We want to pretend.

But we fail. Both of us. All of Gaza now fails to talk about anything normal. Maybe we’ve forgotten how to be human.

We were supposed to talk about weekend plans, about what we’ll eat today, about exams, a new semester, a shopping trip, or even graduation.

But how can we talk like that now? What can send us outside this hell for a brief moment? Nothing is enjoyable anymore. Nothing feels important. All our conversations are memories - and prayers, prayers that the war ends.

As I stand up to leave the cafe, I hug Zain. She says, “Don’t be gone too long.”

“I’ll be back midweek,” I tell her.