When flour disappears, dignity does not. In Gaza, where siege, famine, and neglect have become daily constants, bread is no longer a given—it is crafted from whatever can be crushed, mashed, or fermented. Pasta, rice, lentils: these are no longer ingredients for variety, but tools for survival.

In Jabalia, Afaf Abdel Rabbo kneads crushed pasta into dough to feed her seven children. In Gaza City’s Beach Camp, Reem Omar mills rice and seasons her makeshift loaves with za’atar, stretching them over two long days. In Sheikh Radwan, Abeer Al-Safadi turns soaked lentils into liquid batter—because flour now costs more than a thousand shekels per sack.

This is not a story of scarcity alone, but of a quiet defiance. Every makeshift loaf tells of mothers who refuse to surrender their children to hunger. Every firewood stove that crackles under flatbreads is an act of resistance, a way to say: we are still here. In Gaza, bread is no longer a staple—it is a declaration.