In Gaza, we have sounds of fear and anxiety. We know them too well: the buzz of spy drones above the head, ambulances screaming in narrow streets, the roar of military planes, thunderous attacks, cries of people trapped under rubble and now a new sound: the lively flashing of empty gas cylinders.
We had known the little click of a gas stove burner starting – this little spark at the beginning of a day which meant that a hot meal or a cup of tea arrived. Now, this sound has disappeared, replaced by the clang hollows out of the void.
We used our last drop of cooking gas in the middle of Ramadan. Like all the other Gaza families, we turned to firewood. I remember that my mother said: “From today, we can’t even make a cup of tea for Suhoor.”
Indeed, triggering a fire, even having a sparkle of light at night could attract a drone or a quadcopter, which causes an aerial strike or an ball barrage. We do not know why the light at night is targeted, but we know that we are not allowed to ask.
So we ate cold food for Suhoor and saved the fire for Iftar.
After the bakeries closed its doors due to the shortage of gas last month, the fire dependence increased – not only for our family, but for everyone. Many people have built makeshift clay ovens or fires in alleys or between tents to cook breads.
Thick black smoke hung heavy in the air – not the smoke of the death of the missiles, but the smoke of life that kills us slowly.
Every morning, we wake up the cough – not a passing cough, but a deep, persistent and stifling cough that shakes in our breasts.
Then, my brother and I are walking to the edge of our neighborhood, where a man sells wood at the back of a cart. It brings it together in bombed buildings, fell trees, broken furniture and the ruins of houses and schools.
We bring back everything that our weak bodies can and move on to the following suffering: Burn the wood. It is not easy. It requires hours of hash and breaking of wood and breathing in dust. Our father, despite the suffering of breathlessness, insists on helping. This darkness of sound of sound has become the source of daily arguments, especially between him and my brother.
As we light the fire, our eyes get red because of the smoke, our gorges bite. The cough intensifies.
Firewood has become incredibly expensive. Before the war, we were paying a dollar for eight kilos, but now you can only buy one kilo – or even less – for this price.
The impoverishment has forced many people to cut their own trees. The greenery of our neighborhood has practically disappeared. Many of our neighbors have started to cut the trees they cultivated in their lessons. Even we started using branches of our olive tree – the same tree that we never dared to touch when we were young, afraid that it would bother it would drop the flowers and give fewer olives.
Families who have no cutting trees have turned to plastic, rubber and garbage – everything that will set fire. But the combustion of these materials releases toxic smoke, poisoning the air they breathe and infiltrates the food they cook. The taste of plastic clings to each bite, transforming each meal into health risk.
Constant exposure to this smoke can cause severe respiratory distress and chronic diseases and even cause potentially fatal diseases such as cancer. However, what choice do people have? Without fire, there is no food.
There is something deeply cruel in the transformation of the kitchen – of a symbol of family and hospitality in toxic zone. The fire which once meant the heat now burns our lungs and our eyes. Prepared meals can barely be called: lentil soup; Infested flour bread or flour mixed with sand. The joy of preparing food has been replaced by fear, pain and exhaustion.
This lack of kitchen gas has made more than paralyze our access to food – it has dismantled the rituals that keep families together. Meals are no longer time to come together and enjoy family time but a moment to last. A time to cough. A moment to pray that today’s fire does not make someone too sick.
If a bomb does not kill us, we are faced with a slower death: calm, toxic and just as cruel.
It’s Gaza today.
A place where survival means inhaling poison just to take a cup of tea in the morning.
A place where firewood has become more precious than gold.
A place where even the simple fact of eating has been armed.
And yet we burn.
We cough.
We continue.
What other choice do we have?
The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
