‘In Gaza We Die a 1000 Deaths a Day’

For over a year and five months, the people of Gaza have endured an unrelenting war of extermination—one that has robbed them not only of life’s comforts but of its very essence. Eighteen months of ceaseless suffering, where mere survival has become an act of defiance. The Israeli genocide in Gaza has drained every ounce of their strength—physically, mentally, and emotionally. And for those not granted the mercy of a single, swift death, every moment is a slow, agonizing descent into an unspeakable catastrophe. A never-ending cycle of death inflicted upon them by Israel—where one does not simply perish once, but dies a thousand deaths every day.

Under the relentless barrage of missiles raining down upon us, every passing moment is a gamble with fate. If we escape death today, there is no certainty that it will not claim us tomorrow—for in Israel’s eyes, we are all targets. As if the ceaseless bombardment were not enough, we are also stripped of life’s most basic essentials: food, water, electricity. Existence itself has been reduced to an endless procession of lines—one for a sip of clean water, another for a brief charge of a phone, yet another for a meager ration of humanitarian aid.

But among all these hardships, one of the most crushing has been the loss of cooking gas. With the suffocating blockade and the total closure of border crossings, the last fragile thread connecting us to a semblance of normalcy has been severed. Preparing a meal has become an ordeal, an insurmountable task that drapes every household in Gaza with the weight of exhaustion and despair.

The Cooking Gas Crisis: How It Began

Even before the total closure of Gaza’s crossings during Israel’s war of extermination, access to cooking gas was already scarce, failing to meet the population’s basic needs. Nowhere was this crisis felt more acutely than in the north, where gas barely trickled in—even during the rare moments when Israel allowed limited supplies into the south.

When a brief ceasefire was brokered—only to be swiftly shattered by Israel—residents of northern Gaza were once again left without their share. And the moment the ceasefire ended, the crossings were slammed shut once more, plunging people back into uncertainty, forcing them to navigate survival in the face of the unknown.

Malak Radwan, a resident of northern Gaza, recalls: “The first time we managed to get any cooking gas was after the ceasefire in February, 2025. But it didn’t come from our area—we had to depend on our relatives in the south to share what little they had.”

In southern Gaza, gas distribution operated through a system known as “Gas Lists,” where families were registered in a turn-based queue to receive their cylinders. Even then, the allocated amounts were woefully insufficient to meet the needs of the population. Yet, despite its scarcity and inflated cost, gas was still seen as a rare privilege—one that people clung to with gratitude.

But as the siege tightened and Israel’s total closure of the crossings dragged on, these lists became little more than illusions of hope—long, stagnant lines that might never move. According to the Government Media Office in Gaza, the Israeli occupation has prevented the entry of 18,600 aid trucks and 1,550 fuel trucks, including those carrying cooking gas, further exacerbating the suffering of the Palestinian people. Left stranded in uncertainty, families were forced to seek out alternative ways to cook, even as every other resource around them faded into oblivion.

Alternative Cooking Methods Amidst Catastrophe

They say necessity is the mother of invention, but what happens when all means of invention have vanished? Can the resort to primitive methods still be considered innovation in the face of such overwhelming disaster?

In Gaza, residents have been driven to rely on primitive cooking methods—each effort a dangerous gamble that weighs heavily on their bodies, their souls, and their fragile mental state.

Once, gathering around a coal fire to brew tea on a cold winter’s night was a beloved family ritual, a moment unmatched in its warmth. But now, that same fire has been forced upon us as a way of life—one that ignites not only our stoves but also the anguish in our hearts.

Yet, even firewood has become a distant luxury. Its price has soared, driven by the scarcity of trees, forcing some to scavenge shattered wood from the ruins of bombed homes or burn whatever fragments of furniture they have left. Never did we envision a day when we would be compelled to set our own belongings aflame just to prepare a meal.


“My fingers seem to melt with the fire every time I light it,” my mother sighs.

With firewood becoming prohibitively expensive, many have resorted to standing in yet another queue—this time in front of makeshift clay ovens, hoping to cook whatever food they have left. Umm Mohammad, a displaced woman from northern Gaza, has started her own small business: operating a clay oven where she bakes bread and prepares meals in exchange for a few Shekels.
“I began this work to support myself after losing everything during my displacement to the south. At the same time, I wanted to help those who have no means of cooking in their homes or tents,” she says.

For many families, even a few shekels are out of reach. The only remaining option is to rely on community kitchens—yet another queue to stand in, another obstacle in the endless struggle for survival. These kitchens provide just one meal a day, forcing many to subsist on cold canned food for the rest of their meals. Even the single meal was denied to them by the Israeli occupation. According to a report issued by the Government Media Office in Gaza, the Israeli occupation has directly targeted 60 charity kitchens and aid centers in a ruthless campaign aimed at starving the Palestinian people in Gaza. This has resulted in 80% of Gazan citizens losing their source of food.

The impact has been especially harsh on children and the elderly, who desperately need warm, nutritious food to sustain them.

And this is yet another burden we set aside amid the bleakness of our lives. Here in Gaza, the closure of border crossings is not the only barrier worsening the disaster of cooking gas shortages. As Gazans, we do not have the luxury of choosing our daily meals, nor do we have the privilege of enjoying a well-balanced diet. Every day, we are forced to go to the market, only to face the recurring frustration of missing food supplies. We are compelled to prepare meals we do not desire because no alternatives exist, and to eat unbalanced meals because we cannot afford anything better. Here, every moment we endure is a catastrophe in itself.

The Health and Social Consequences of the Gas Shortage

The crisis extends far beyond the inability to cook—it has dire implications for both health and society. Malnutrition has become rampant due to the lack of proper food preparation, leading to widespread cases of general weakness and anemia, especially among children.

Respiratory illnesses have also surged, as people are forced to burn wood and coal inside their homes, inhaling thick smoke with every breath. This has exacerbated the suffering of the sick and elderly.

Amani Al-Ghefari, a resident of northern Gaza, recounts her ordeal: “As someone with nearsightedness who wears corrective glasses, the smoke from burning wood has not only worsened my vision but has also caused a constant burning in my eyes, accompanied by migraines and relentless coughing. The most harrowing consequence, however, has been the physical strain—splitting firewood has taken a severe toll on my joints, leading to months of painful physical therapy.”

But the catastrophe is not limited to physical health—it has deeply scarred the psyche of every Gazan. Food is no longer just a means of sustenance; it has become a haunting memory of life before the genocide. The warmth of family gatherings around a meal has been replaced by a daily struggle for mere survival.
One mother confesses in anguish:
“I can no longer cook a warm meal for my children. I feel helpless, unable to provide for their most basic needs.”

Gaza’s Plea for Its Most Basic Rights

Amidst this suffering, numerous humanitarian organizations have made urgent appeals for aid to enter Gaza. The World Food Programme has expressed concern over the closure of 25 bakeries it supports in Gaza, due to a lack of fuel and flour. Yet, Israel continues its punitive policies, blocking fuel and essential supplies. Human rights advocates persist in calling for the immediate reopening of crossings and the unrestricted flow of aid to all areas of the Strip.

What is happening in Gaza is not merely a humanitarian crisis—it is an orchestrated catastrophe. Life as we knew it has been obliterated, and the suffering has surpassed all conceivable limits. Now more than ever, there is an urgent need for decisive international intervention to save the people of Gaza and to lift the inhumane siege that deprives them of even the most basic right—to cook their own food.

Silence is no longer an option. Every passing moment means more hunger, more pain, more devastation. Supporting Gaza is not just a humanitarian duty—it is a moral imperative that the world can no longer afford to ignore.

Quds News Network

CrossFireArabia

CrossFireArabia

Dr. Marwan Asmar holds a PhD from Leeds University and is a freelance writer specializing on the Middle East. He has worked as a journalist since the early 1990s in Jordan and the Gulf countries, and been widely published, including at Albawaba, Gulf News, Al Ghad, World Press Review and others.

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Israel Killed Raghad on The Way to School

17-year-old Raghad Hussein Ashour left her home, Monday morning, carrying her books and dreams, heading to an educational center in the Rimal neighborhood of Gaza City. She was preparing for her secondary school exams and clinging to her right to education despite the war, displacement, and destruction that has affected schools and all aspects of life in the Gaza Strip.

But her path to knowledge was cut short. Raghad was killed in an Israeli airstrike that targeted a vehicle in the Rimal neighborhood as she was passing near the site of the attack on her way to the educational center. Her academic dreams turned into a new tragedy reflecting the reality for thousands of students in Gaza.

According to her mother, Raghad was an outstanding student and one of the top performers in her studies. She refused to let the war sever her connection to education.

Read also: Student killed while on her way to take her Tawjihi exam in a bombing in Gaza.

After the destruction of schools and the disruption of the educational process, she had become accustomed to moving between the streets of Gaza and cafes in search of electricity and internet access to continue her studies and complete her assignments.

From Beit Hanoun to Displacement

Raghad comes from the town of Beit Hanoun in the northern Gaza Strip, but she and her mother were forced to flee to Gaza City to escape the relentless bombardment there. They settled in a displacement camp near the Saraya area in the Rimal neighborhood, where the young woman continued her studies amidst extremely difficult humanitarian conditions.

Raghad’s suffering wasn’t solely due to the war; she had been orphaned since childhood, losing her father when she was just two years old. She was raised by her mother, who dedicated her life to her upbringing and care.

As the years passed, the only daughter became her mother’s support and companion in facing life’s burdens and losses.

“Who will replace her?”

Standing before her daughter’s body, the grieving mother was unable to comprehend the magnitude of the tragedy. Her words, heavy with anguish, uttered, “My daughter was my only child… my rose was taken from me in an instant. Who will ever replace her?”

She added bitterly, “I used to move her from place to place during the war so she wouldn’t be taken from me. We slept together on the same pillow.”

The mother recounted years of fear for her only daughter, how she tried to protect her from death during repeated displacements and the harsh days of war, before losing her on her way to school.

In poignant scenes captured in widely circulated videos, the mother embraced her daughter’s body, weeping for dreams unfulfilled. She spoke of the joy of success that awaited her, and the future she had envisioned for her despite all the hardships, before those dreams were extinguished by the bombing.

Her death sparked widespread grief and reactions on social media, where many saw in her story a poignant illustration of the suffering of Gaza’s students who cling to education despite displacement, destruction, and the lack of basic necessities. For some, their books have become the final testament to dreams that were never meant to be fulfilled.

The Israeli occupation forces continue to violate the ceasefire agreement and the end of the war of aggression on the Gaza Strip for the 256th consecutive day. This agreement was signed on October 10, 2015, in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt, under Arab and American mediation. Sanad news agency

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Meet Karimeh Abbud – First ‘Lady Photographer’ of Palestine

Ahmad Mrowat’s collection

Ahmad Mrowat’s collection

Late Israeli prime minister Golda Meir once unashamedly said the Palestinians don’t exist and Israel was established on empty lands.

It was a view repeated time and again to justify the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands and their subsequent grab of more Arab territories.

The photographs of Karimeh Abbud (1893-1940), the first Palestinian woman photographer, debunks that view and makes Israelis like Meir eat their words.

Google honoured her legacy by celebrating Abbud’s 123rd birthday with a Google doodle in 2016 two years before this article was first published.

“Abbud captured vast landscapes, many of which don’t exist today. Through her art, we’re able to experience the beauty of these regions as she saw them nearly 100 years ago,” said Google on November 18, 2016. “Thank you, Karimeh, for making art that endures.”

Only upon closer inspection it is clear that the tree is in fact painted on the negative, curving around her head and through her hands

Google also dwelled on her “photographs of family, friends and the surrounding landscape of Bethlehem, Palestine.”

Darat Al Funun of the Khaled Shoman Foundation in Amman presented the first comprehensive exhibition of photographs by Karimeh Abbud in late 2018 to continue January 11, 2019.

Documentary

The exhibition also included a short documentary on Karimeh’s life and work by Mahasen Nasser-Eldin.

Many art critics have commented on the impressive nature of her photography. In a tribute to Abbud Palestinian art critic Tammam Al Akhal said “she is friend of the light and sun… there is an artistic sense of the equilibrium inside her pictures. She was a true artist when taking a photograph.”

Al Akhal was giving a short presentation on the artistic poise in Abbud’s photographs as the Karimeh Abbud Photography Competition Prize was being launched by Dar Al Kalima University College of Arts and Culture in Bethlehem, Palestine, in 2016. The competition has since become an annual event designed to encourage young talent in art, culture and photography.

The Lady Photographer of Palestine

In her time, she established herself amongst the great photographers of the time with Al Akhal referring to her as standing as “tall as the skyscraper.”

Abbud was born in Bethlehem on November 18, 1893, in a Christian family which had settled in Palestine in the latter half of the 19th century. Her father was Said Abbud, an Anglican-Lutheran priest, who used to travel all over Palestine and take Abbud with him wherever he went.

Ivana Peric wrote that when Abbud was little she would accompany her father on his travels to distant places to serve his congregations in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Haifa and Nazareth “and this constant travel to Palestinian cities and villages allowed [Abbud] to see the diverse landscape of her homeland first-hand. She wanted to see more and capture the beauty she encountered.”

Reverend Mitri Al Raheb — who became a sort of unofficial biographer of Karimeh Abbud and her family — said when he came to Palestine, her father travelled to many places from Gaza in the south to Shaffa Amer in the north and then finally settled in Bethlehem in 1890. However, the family finally put down roots in Nazareth and this is where Abbud grew up, going to primary school there, then to Jerusalem and later to the American University in Beirut where she studied Arabic literature.

However her true passion was photography. She was merely 17 when her father gave her a camera and she started clicking there and then and didn’t stop until her death. She was buried in the Bethlehem Church where her father preached from the early 1900s until 1947 when he retired and left Palestine in January 1948 because of the troubles in Palestine and returned to Marj Ayoun in southern Lebanon where he originally came from.

During this period, however, the second of his six children quickly established herself by becoming a highly competent photographer, competing in a man’s world alongside such old hacks as Khalil Raad, Hanna Safieh and Fadil Saba and a handful of Armenian photographers who dominated the profession.

Ahmad Mrowat, the director of the Nazareth Archive Project devoted to collecting the works of the “Lady Photographer”, said Saba, the local photographer, moved to Haifa in the early 1930s and this made the emerging photographer a household name. He was invited to cover events all over Palestine, including one celebration in Hebron.

Social revolution

Abbud created a social revolution in photography. Unlike the male photographers who worked out of their own studios, Abbud did much more. She had two studios, one in Nazareth where she also had a laboratory for processing the photos and keeping the negatives in a safe place and adding colour to some of them, and a studio in Haifa. However, she visited homes to take photographs of women and children which male photographers could not do.

Abbud went into the homes of well-to-do and middle class families as Al Raheb points out. Increasingly, these people wanted her to come to their homes because of prevailing social constraints that made it inappropriate for them to venture outside their houses, especially to be photographed in studios.

So Abbud photographed women and children at different social occasions, during parties and marriage ceremonies. Her reputation was quickly cemented in the 1920s and 1930s when she took up the profession full time. In Al Carmel, a local newspaper, she advertised herself as “the only national photographer in Palestine [who] learned this beautiful art by well-known photographic personalities and is specialist in the service of women at reasonable prices…”

There are two points here to consider that could actually be inter-related. Jinan Abdo stresses the national element in this advertisement. She states in a 2012 documentary on Abbud made by Mahasen Nasser-Eldin: “when she calls herself a national photographer that feeds into the national context that was present at the time. In the 1920s, after the British Mandate began, Muslim and Christian associations started to counter the idea that we are sectarian groups and not a nation and to support the idea of the unification of our nation, so the rational element was essential and I think we can look at Karimeh through this national context,” Abdo says.

Dr Issam Nassar, an academic at Illinois State University who teaches Middle East history, focuses on the “micro” element in her photography. “Taking portraits in studios at that time required preparations” whilst “in the clients’ homes… it was more relaxing because people felt at ease in their natural sorroundings.”

Hani Hourani, a social science researcher who studied art and photography, says: “If we look at the family and group photos [taken by Karimeh Abbud] the viewer doesn’t see the traditional style of the setting, the background décor and the fixed distribution of light but the onlooker sees such marked diversity in all these elements.

“The home was an opportunity for more improvisation and diversity in the styles captured by the photo leading many to suggest Karimeh Abbud was a non-traditional photographer calling for change in the way she clicked photos.”

Abbud’s photographs on show at Darat Al Funun were recently acquired accidentally after much cajoling.

Mrowat answered an advertisement placed in an Arab newspaper by an antiquarian Jewish collector named Boki Boazz calling for more information about Karimeh Abbud. That was in 2006.

Mrowat says at first the collector was not willing to divulge any information but after being pressed, it turned out that he had 4,000 photographs which he got hold of in one of the houses in the Qatamon district in Jerusalem after their owners fled in 1948; the photographs, he adds were of Karimeh Abbud because her name was initialled on each of the photographs — the first signed picture postcard belonging to her was dated October 1919.

Mrowat says his heart was set on obtaining the collection which he felt were a very important part of Palestinian heritage, finally persuading Boazz to give up his collection by offering him an old edition of the Torah printed in the Palestinian city of Safad in 1860.

The photos on show form only a part of the collection at Darat Al Funun and are only a fraction of the huge number of photographs said to number 9,000 still believed to be in the possession of the Israeli army as an article in the Haaretz newspaper stated.

The photos present a narrative of the Palestinian society and travel before 1948. Abbud took photos of cities and villages that flourished in the early part of the 20th century.

It was easy for Abbud to get around, Mrowat says, as she was probably the first woman to have an automobile and a driving licence in Palestine and the Arab world. She used to travel frequently to photograph Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Tiberias and Haifa. Many photos were taken of beaches, markets, mosques and churches, providing a unique glimpse of Palestinian life.

Mrowat, Dr Nassar and others suggest she would act, at times, as a tour guide, accompanying visitors to many tourist locations including the Jordan River and Yarmouk River as well as many other places. In between these, she was interested also in photographing the daily lives of Palestinian women, the different stitches they would make as they embroidered their garments which represented different villages, farming, women carrying water and wood as well as other scenes in both the countryside and in towns and cities.

Nassar puts it in another way when he says that Abbud was able to bring out the human aspects of the personalities she was photographing and this added value to her work and individuality because she succeeded in preserving the modesty and humanity of the Palestinian existence “through what professional photographers call the “aura” of the photograph and its phantasmical imagination.”

Al Akhal agrees, saying this is why Abbud’s photographs surpassed time. It was the “professionalism”, “creativity” and “high quality” that produced good negatives and in turn excellent photographs that “allowed her work to continue to be seen long after,” she says. “Through these pictures she [Karimeh Abbud] talks to us in silence, we build a dialogue with her, become friendly with her and construct strong relations with her.”

Through her images, Abbud provided a pictorial documentation of Palestinian life.

Nasser-Eldin, also coordinator of the the Karimeh Abbud Photograph Competition Prize, says “Abbud started what we can call ‘documentary photography’ documenting the lives of people through her studios and through her movement in the country carrying her bulky tripod and her camera wherever she went.

“Through her lens we got to know the forms of Palestinians living in Palestine before 1948. Her photos give us a change concept, a new picture of windows and images of Palestine and Palestinians, totally different from the pictures of orientalists who showed our country [Palestine] was empty of people and/or showed images of people spread out and not as an integrated community with civilisation and culture living in towns and cities and in modernity at that time,” Nasser Eldin added.

Her photos were well-taken and are a vital part of history, so at various times Israel has sought to adopt her as one of its own. This is what one book, published in 2011, titled Karimeh Abbud: Israeli Portrait and Wedding Photography by Monica Millian tried to do. Many have questioned its credibility as it is primarily sourced from Wikipedia and other online resources.

It can easily be understood why Israel would want to “cash in” on such an historic cultural figure, but Abbud is a Palestinian through and through as judged by historical evidence.

Marwan Asmar is a commentator based in Amman. He has long worked in journalism and has a Phd in Political Science from Leeds University in the UK. This article originally written for and appeared in Gulf News and is now reprinted in crossfirearabia.com.

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