In Gaza, the scent of scorched lentils and makeshift bread rising from clay ovens tells the story of a people cornered by war and hunger. Families who once gathered around vibrant meals now sit in silence around empty pots. There is no variety, no fullness—only the fight to keep breathing.

Umm Fadi, standing over a flame of salvaged wood, stirs a small pot of lentils. “We eat to live, not to be full,” she says, her voice cracking. There is no flour, no oil, no clean water. Wild herbs pulled from the rubble now pass for vegetables. Children sip boiled water flavoured with onion to soothe the growling in their stomachs. A single loaf of bread must stretch across a family of seven.

Food has become a weapon. While Israeli forces continue their bombardment, Gaza’s borders remain sealed. Aid convoys are blocked. Shelves are bare. And yet, every burnt loaf and every spoonful of lentils is a statement: we are still here. Cooking in Gaza is no longer a routine—it is an act of resistance, a defiance of siege and starvation.

Yesterday, the World Food Programme warned that Gaza’s food system is on the brink of collapse. Nearly two million people are now completely reliant on aid that is no longer arriving. Hunger, like the bombs, is relentless.

But through it all, Gaza’s people hold on. Every meagre meal is more than sustenance—it is a declaration of dignity, a quiet refusal to be erased.