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The Arabic proverb goes, “There is no voice louder than hunger,” in the case of Gaza.

With each passing day, the painful truth that surrounds us has grown.

Never could the bombings and killings have been more enthralling. We never imagined this weapon would be more brutal than any other weapon we’ve ever encountered in this never-ending conflict.

Nothing on Maslow’s hierarchy even meets the most basic needs, and it has been four months without a single full meal for my family.

I spend my days battling hunger. One sister calls to inquire about flour, while the other replies that lentils are all they have.

My brother returns home from a long search for food for his two children with no food.

One day, our neighbor screamed in dismay as we woke up.

“I’m mad,” I say. What’s going on? When I came out to calm her down, she said, “I have money, but there’s nothing to buy.”

My phone keeps ringing throughout. I received calls from crying women who I met while conducting fieldwork in displacement camps: “Ms Maram”? Can you provide any assistance? a kilogram of flour, perhaps? We haven’t eaten in a while.

We haven’t eaten in days, is a phrase that rings in my ears. It has stopped being shocking.

In a country so proud of its “humanity,” famine is spreading forward in broad daylight, shamelessly.

A second birthday amid scarcity

Iyas has awakened and requested a cup of milk for his birthday today.

In the midst of a conflict, he has two years. On his birthday last year, I wrote him a poem, but this time, I think, “At least there was food”!

I become enthralled when a simple request from a child for some milk is made.

The list goes on and on until I had already held a quiet funeral inside of me weeks ago for the last of the milk, then rice, sugar, bulgur, and beans.

If I ration sparingly, I’ll have enough food to last me for two weeks, including four bags of pasta, five of lentils, and ten of my favorite 10 kilos (22lb) of flour. Even that, I’m luckier than most in Gaza.

White gold is something people are dying for every day because flour means bread.

Every cup of dough feels heavy to me. Just two cups, I whisper to myself. I add a little more, then a little more, hoping to halve these tiny bits into enough bread to last the day.

But I am aware that I’m deceiving myself. Since my mind constantly warns me how little flour we have left, it will not be enough to quell my hunger.

I’m not sure what I’m writing anymore. But this is exactly what I’m living, what I doze off of.

What plights still exist?

I’m now thinking about my former morning bread-making schedule.

I once detested the lengthy process that was imposed by war, which made me miss having access to the bakery’s bread.

That routine is now sacred, though. Thousands of people in Gaza aspire to be able to knead bread without stopping. I’m one of them.

My husband and I now hold the plate on my head and gently knead the flour, then carefully roll the loaves out, bake them in the public clay oven while he lovingly balances the tray on his head.

We are one of the “lucky” ones after spending an entire hour in the sun baking a warm loaf of bread. The wealthy are our kings.

For hundreds of thousands of Gaza residents, these “miserable” daily routines have turned into unattainable dreams.

Everyone is in agony. Is it possible that there will still be more horrors in this conflict?

We complained about being displaced. Then, our homes were bombed. Never did we go back.

We complained about the demands of carrying water, hand washing clothes, cooking over a fire, and bringing bread.

These “burdens” now seem like luxuries. Water is lacking. No soap . No supplies .

Iyas’s most recent challenge

Another challenge surfaced two weeks ago as Iyas were being drained of their last handfuls of flour.

We had no disposable diapers. My husband went through every possible location and came home empty-handed.

No diapers, no formula for babies, nothing at all.

That’s it.

How strange and harsh were the early years of this child, my God. We couldn’t stop him from changing because of the changes that war has caused.

His first year was a yearlong search for diapers, clean water, and formula for babies.

He then experienced famine, and he developed a life without eggs, fresh milk, vegetables, fruit, or any other essential nutrients.

I worked hard, sacrificing my limited health to continue breastfeeding.

What else could I do besides work, especially as I was struggling and attempting to keep up my work? It is intolerable to think about raising a child at this crucial stage without any nutrients.

One morning, my little hero encountered the challenge of changing diapers. I feared for him, looking at the toilet seat, which appeared to be a deep cave or tunnel he might fall into. Finding a child’s toilet seat took us two days.

He was training every day, a sign he wasn’t ready.

I was exhausted and frustrated as I sat by the toilet to cheer him up. When the child is ready, the child should begin potty training naturally.

Why are I and so many other mothers here forced to deal with a child for whom I haven’t had the opportunity to prepare and who is also suffering mentally?

I then go to bed and wake up in the morning to find my child using the restroom.

As I try to control our precious water supply, soiled clothes build up from daily accidents.

Then came Deir el-Balah’s expulsion orders.

A new slap is applied. As Israeli tanks get closer, the threat grows.

And there I am, starving, out of diapers, raising my voice in response to a young child’s confusion as the shelling blares in our direction.

Why do we have to live in such a state of dissipation every day as we prepare for another disaster?

Many people have pleaded with beggars. Some people have chosen to leave their favorite thing: a handful of flour or a piece of bread.

Others wait patiently for the tanks to arrive at home.

Many people, like me, are merely waiting their turn to join the hunger-stricken without knowing what the result will be.

Israel’s military vehicles pass through Sebastia, and young people flee as quickly as they can as soon as possible as a result of the recent incursion.

They make an effort to return before invading soldiers cross the street, knowing that if they don’t, they could have disastrous effects.

Walking close to the scenic summit of Sebastia Archaeological Park frequently causes the cries of caution.

Before arriving in the town and its ancient ruins, army vehicles can be seen on the streets below, giving locals a chance to hide their young.

Walking prevention warnings are frequently posted on social media as soon as they are released, and Sebastia residents who were once a tourist hotspot and a religious pilgrimage site have the option of sleeping in their homes or confronting soldiers who no longer exercise restraint.

He “celebrated the murder of my son.”

An Israeli soldier fatally shot Ahmed Jazar, 14, in January of this year, and then triumphantly raised his rifle in the air after hitting the unarmed boy in the chest, piercing his heart.

Ahmed was “celebrating” as he sat patiently starving to death on the ground, his 57-year-old father Rashid’s reported to Al Jazeera.

According to his parents, Ahmed made caring for his afflicted family his calling. He was mature beyond his years.

He wanted to work as a decorator and had some artistic talent. He aspired to start a business to generate enough revenue to buy a permanent residence for his family, a better option than the overcrowded rental apartment they shared.

His mother, Wafaa, claimed that they shot Ahmed and then killed all of his dreams.

“We’re in a state of war, but the army doesn’t.”

No one feels safe with their children unless they are at home, according to the statement, “Soldiers are here every day.”

Wafaa and Rashid claim Ahmed slept in the neighborhood the night before he was killed and woke up in the early afternoon after playing with his friends the night before. He enjoyed cycling near the archaeological park, playing football in the schoolyard, and ordering food from the town’s once-busy cafes.

He left his friends and spent some time with his family, unaware that they would be reuniting in their final moments.

Then, as dinner time approached, his parents drove Ahmed to the bakery to buy bread.

According to Rashid, “It was always a habit of his to come and go in this manner.” Everyone adored him because he was so sociable.

He left and never returned, though, this time.

Some children and young people engage in defiance by throwing stones at heavily armed soldiers or their armored vehicles or shining laser pointers at them as a result of the Israeli soldiers’ frequent raids on occupied West Bank towns.

On the tragic January day, Ahmed and his friends were hiding behind a wall near a nursery as some soldiers rushed their way, according to some neighbors.

Ahmed’s family disputes his involvement in this. Wafaa and Rashid said they were waiting for his return from the stores so they could have dinner together.

Rashid remarked, “He was just a child.” The Israeli soldier was aware that he was a young boy and that he lacked any potential threat to the army.

When they shot him, he was hundreds of meters away from them!

The nursery’s bullet-dented door and facade, which were built by Save The Children, still bear witness to Ahmed’s tragic death.

A military spokesman told Haaretz in March that the Military Police Criminal Investigation Division had launched an investigation following the incident. We can’t go into more detail about an ongoing investigation, of course.

Residents of Sebastia, among others, claim they are used to “sham” investigations that typically end in vain and almost certainly have no punishment for the offender.

The military reached out to Rashid, who declined to provide information for the Ahmed killing investigation.

“They called me to discuss justice after killing my son,” you say? “he said.

Al Jazeera contacted Israeli authorities in writing with requests for comment on the Ahmed-related shooting investigation, but no response was forthcoming at the time of publication.

Sebastia, where the Israeli army regularly raids cities and towns in the West Bank, is one of the few targets. Since late 2022, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s far-right ultranationalist government has increased attacks there.

Fawzi Makhalfeh, 19, and Ahmed, 19, were killed by the military on January 19th, 2023.

Since the coalition government led by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu came to power, at least 25 people have been injured by gunshot in Sebastia. A 22-year-old man was shot in the chest earlier this month while driving through Sebastia, near the town of Attil.

Additionally, violent settlers wreak havoc on Palestinian landowners who live nearby, which are reliant on agriculture and tourism, and Sebastia is set to receive additional settlements, both official and unofficial.

Soldiers use residents’ mobile phones to attack anyone who resists and post threatening messages. According to a recording that was made by an ostensibly Israeli soldier, one of the recordings accuses townspeople of being “implicit in terrorism” and warns them to “pay the price.”

Justice

In the rented home where they can barely afford, Wafaa and her husband sat on either side of a memorial to their murdered son. Four brothers and three sisters, ages seven and twenty, were left behind by Ahmad.

Rashid used to paint in Israel, but since October 7, he hasn’t been able to travel across the border, which has contributed to the family’s perilous financial situation.

Other than Rashid, the only other family member in employment is Rushdi, 19, who occasionally works as a carpenter.

According to them, Ahmed had left school to support his father by performing odd jobs like olive picking and painting to bring in money for the family. Wafaa, who once made dresses, is unable to find employment and still has five young children in need of her care.

As their mother spoke, Amir, age six, and Adam, age 11, clung on to Ahmed’s other siblings.

Wafaa told Al Jazeera, “Wafaa, I sit by Ahmed’s grave and cry for hours,” she said. I cry whenever I can to prevent my children from seeing me because I must stand up for them.

The 40-year-old was unable to maintain eye contact because she was constantly in tears. She hung Ahmed’s torn clothing, which had been soaked in blood.

Rashid recalled rushing to the scene and stumbling through a crowd to find Ahmed collapsed in a pool of blood moments after the soldiers had left that day.

Ahmed and Rashid later drove with him to Nablus’ An-Najah Hospital, but Rashid’s son was unable to survive. On arrival, he was declared dead.

His mother claims that she awoke feeling defeated as if her life was over because she learned about Ahmed’s murder and fell unconscious.

She claims that Israel wants Sebastia residents to feel this way and to leave.

Rashid claimed that his family had been terrorized into staying indoors because of his son’s murder and that they had locked their doors, hid in a back room, and turned off the lights when invaders occur.

He claims that many people in Sebastia are taking precautions in response to his son’s death, which “sent a chilling message to those who call the ancient town home.

Wafaa continued, “The army comes here every day, and now we fear leaving.” Soldiers are now prepared to shoot children, according to  .