Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, August/September 2025, pp. 16-17
Daily Life and Shattered Dreams in Gaza—Writers Share Their Stories
By Hassan Abo Qamar
SITTING ON THE GROUND, I closely observe the details around me. The sky is pink; the time is nearing sunset. Clouds fill the horizon, and among them fly the buzzing drones of the occupation, their hum never leaves my ears. The smell of burning wood mixed with plastic—one of the main materials used to start the fire, catches quickly and helps the firewood ignite—leaves me with a persistent headache. Although I am 3 meters (10 inches) away from the clay oven, all my senses feel the heat as I inhale the scent of fire. I’m close enough that if a strong wind blows, I can reach the flames to rekindle them before they go out.
I sit there, lost in thought about nothing at all, focused on my senses and the scene in front of me. My focus is interrupted by my mother’s voice: “Did it boil?” she asks, referring to the tea kettle. I lift the lid and reply, “No not yet.” We all wait for it to boil so we can end another long day of facing the fire.
I look closely at the face of my mother. She is my partner in fire, a phrase she coined to describe our bond. Her tired features as she waits for the tea to boil say it all. She, too, shares in the struggle before the flames, and her face clearly shows that she, like me, longs for this day to end. We both wait for that moment when we can finally lie down and rest after a day full of burning and smoke. I hope for just enough rest to enable me to survive tomorrow.
We wake up late, despite our old habit of rising early. These days of hunger and hardship offer no incentive to wake up early. Why would we? To sit before the fire? To grow hungrier? The equation is simple: Waking up earlier means more working hours, means greater need for food that doesn’t exist.
As soon as I open my eyes, I head out to buy firewood, marking the start of yet another day in this war with fire and in this ongoing genocide by the occupation. I begin chopping the wood, usually not finishing until the afternoon prayer. In one’s imagination, chopping wood might seem like a scene from an adventure film, but reality is always different…and more disappointing.
Chopping and lighting the fire is exhausting and draining. I can barely get through half of it before my body starts to give out. Then comes the tiring task of trying to ignite the flames, a bit later in the day; we delay lunch until just before sunset so we don’t need another meal at night due to the lack of food.
At the same time, my partner in fire—my mother—is inside, preparing whatever ingredients we have. Our daily routine begins with two cups of coffee placed on a still-weak fire, hoping it might ease the headache caused by the smoke. Then, we must search through our neighborhood corners for any vehicle carrying firewood. Sometimes they come early, so there’s no wood left for those who arrive late, like us. Other times, they come late, and we have to wait for it.
Once the flames grow stronger and the embers spread, we start cooking. The last thing placed over the dying coals is always the tea kettle.
While sitting in front of the fire, we can’t help remembering our past days and wondering whether they will ever return. Sometimes we ask each other strange questions: “Would you rather the gas came back or the food?” Then we laugh—we’ve forgotten that we’re supposed to have both. Even more absurd is that we’ve forgotten to talk about the war ending. We haven’t grown used to death or pain, but we’ve grown used to being abandoned. It shows in the kind of conversations we have now. And it’s even clearer when we remember how we used to complain about our old lives and laugh, a hysterical kind of laughter that carries more pain than any tears.
In every lunch battle, I face the same weapons from the same enemy—fire. Choking from the smoke, eyes stinging to the point of tears, blackened, cracked hands from wood and coal: it’s a repeated scene, all for a hot drink before studying, or to heat a bit of coffee before reading the news, or for a plate of canned food whose taste I still cannot get used to.
The hardest part is the psychological toll. I always ask myself after lunch: Was it worth it? Do canned beans justify all this effort? Should heating coffee take 45 minutes? Is hunger more painful, or is it this emptiness the fire leaves behind? I am empty of dreams; I gave them up long ago. Maybe because they burn faster than plastic…or maybe they help ignite the fire even better than it! I am empty of life; the screams of those who died by this fire never leave me. It’s the same cause of death, but they die in minutes, while I’m dying slowly. I am empty of energy; the fire has drained my ability to work or study.
Then, suddenly, the smell of tea interrupts it all. It is more alive than I am. It boils with a strong, beautiful scent, even if mixed with the cursed smell of fire, while I boil with a pale face and sunken eyes, filled with hatred, exhaustion and emptiness. I smile—for the first time, it was a cup of tea, not the sound of a deadly missile, that shook my thoughts.
Because I hadn’t been thinking about “nothing,” after all. I was thinking about real, terrible questions: Why did the world allow them to do this? Why can’t we buy gas even when we have money? Why has this world gotten used to seeing fire in my city, burning humans?
Then, it occurs to me that maybe I was, in fact, thinking about nothing. Because this world holds nothing of humanity.
Hassan Abo Qamar is a Palestinian writer, programmer and entrepreneur from Gaza, who focuses on documenting the humanitarian situation in Gaza. In addition to writing, Hassan has a deep passion for business and technology and hopes to study industrial engineering. He is training with We Are Not Numbers (WANN), a project to amplify the voices of young Palestinian writers.
