In Gaza, even a simple loaf of bread has become a symbol of survival, sacrifice, and despair. As the genocide deepens and the siege tightens, over two million Palestinians are being starved not just by bombs but by bureaucracy—trapped in a man-made famine, punished for existing.

For the third week in a row, not a single automatic bakery has operated across the besieged enclave. The last bags of flour donated by the World Food Programme vanished when Israel sealed the crossings on March 1st, choking the Strip of life. Now, families gather around roadside clay ovens—built from rubble, fuelled by plastic and scraps—hoping for a handful of bread to quiet their children’s hunger.

Every morning, before the sun rises, the queues begin. Five, six, even ten hours waiting, only to be turned away when the dough piles too high. Firewood has become gold. Plastic waste burns in its place, filling the air with poison—but no one dares complain. As Shaimaa, a displaced mother, says bitterly, “I know I’m feeding my child disease, but what other choice do I have?”

The cost of bread has surged beyond reach. Families who once paid five shekels now spend over twenty, if they’re lucky enough to find flour at all. In this wasteland of scarcity, women and youth have turned to baking as a last resort for income. But for many, like Suad Jalajel, who runs a humble oven in Gaza City, the demand is overwhelming. She shuts down before noon, unable to meet the desperation surrounding her. “Every time I turn someone away, I carry their hunger with me,” she whispers.

The United Nations and humanitarian groups have raised the alarm: Gaza is starving. More than 41 days have passed since meaningful aid was allowed in. Bakeries are closed, food convoys blocked, flour warehouses empty. Famine is not looming—it is here.

In the silence of the international community, bread has become Gaza’s last battleground. Not for dignity or politics, but for bare existence.