In Gaza, where gas no longer flows and electricity is a memory, the baboor—a relic of the past—has returned not with nostalgia but out of necessity. Once tucked away in storage rooms or remembered from childhood tales, these clattering metal stoves now glow again in homes blanketed by war and hunger.

Under siege and deprived of fuel, residents are left with no option but to cook with whatever they can salvage. From the ruins, firewood is gathered. Old stoves are mended. Diesel distilled from plastic waste replaces the long-vanished kerosene. And so, Gaza’s kitchens, surrounded by silence and smoke, cling to life through the whine of the baboor.

For women like Ikhtam Abdul Rahman in Al-Shati camp, the baboor is no longer an old companion—it’s a lifeline. “We used to laugh about the noise of it. Now, it's our only way to cook. It smells foul, breaks easily, but it works.” Her story is echoed across the Strip, where resilience is not just a word, but a ritual repeated daily in makeshift kitchens.

In Al-Daraj, Um Riad Jaradah has transformed her fear into action. “I’m scared it’ll explode. But what choice do I have? My children need to eat.” With diesel fumes choking the air and warplanes roaring overhead, she keeps her focus on the flame. “The baboor screams—but hunger screams louder.”

Others turn to the kanoun stove, larger and slower, but capable of holding more pots at once. For Huda Faiz, a diabetic suffering from chronic illness, the smoke and ash are a torment. “We used to sit around it in winter. Now it just brings sickness. I cook through the tears in my eyes.”

This is Gaza’s new normal: where meals are measured not in calories but in risk; where every bite is an act of defiance; and where the flame of the baboor is more than heat—it is the fire of survival.