Tomatoes in the Rubble – Aya's personal story from Gaza

I document aid work in our area. Community kitchens, or tekias, still operate, trying to feed the people. They make one meal meant for three, and seven people share it. A baker down the street – Abu Rami – is a local hero. I see him from the window. If he spots an elderly woman in need, he does a little math and lets her pay just a few shekels, even though baking bread here now costs nearly $100 a month for a family. It’s these moments that make me believe my work matters. That there’s purpose in telling these stories, even if I’m telling them from the rubble.

Displacement: A New Normal

I’ve been displaced to my sister’s house for over a year now. We left our own home when the bombs started falling – our neighbourhood became dangerous and uninhabited. “Temporary,” we told ourselves, but that word has stretched far too long.

Water is scarce and salty. It tastes of metal and illness. People try to repair wells or drill new ones, attempting to raise water using different tools with solar energy. Without solar energy, we would not have been able to extract water from the ground. But using solar energy in specialised motors is almost impossible.

My mother’s health is worsening, not just because of the water but because fresh food is almost impossible to find. Or afford. A 25kg bag of white flour costs more than $350 (which is the monthly salary for most of Gazans). That’s barely enough for a large family. People now are struggling to find alternative from what exists, they boil the pasta, knead it to be a loaf of bread, also they grind lentil grains to make flour. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten an orange. I remember once, during a brief ceasefire, I found a single fresh tomato. I saved its seeds and planted them. Two months later, they’re beginning to grow. I check them every day. It’s a small hope – a red fruit in a grey world.

War has changed their games. It’s reshaping their dreams.

But even so, we laugh. We let them be naughty. They must be allowed to have a voice. They must believe in a future – even if we’re not sure what it looks like.

Trying to Live

Even during war people live life. A week ago, our neighbour was looking for a venue for a wedding. My cousin offered our house. We had music, laughter, celebration – even though the groom’s own house was destroyed. He’s trying to start his married life in a tent.

I’ve started sewing too. My mother taught me. Right now, I’m working on a patchwork quilt. It makes me happy. The pieces don’t match, but together they’re something warm. Something beautiful. I believe in beauty.

The Cost of Survival

Life here isn’t just about food. It’s about soap. Medicine. Door hinges. I tried to fix part of our old house during a ceasefire, and I could barely find a hinge. Supplies are either gone or outrageously priced.

We cook with whatever we can burn – furniture, old clothes, even trees that have stood for 50 years. Some people burn their belongings just to make a fire. Others cut trees that gave them shade their whole lives. If I could, I’d give every woman in Gaza a new set of lungs. The smoke we’ve inhaled trying to feed our families over the past two years has scarred us inside.

Still, we continue.

Faith is what keeps us breathing. I believe this is a test. A test of patience. A test of kindness. We don’t know why we suffer, but we trust that it’s not meaningless. My faith tells me that if I survive this war, God will bless me with a better life. And if I don’t – then paradise awaits. Inshallah. Either way, I’ll be okay.

We believe in the future

There are no safe places left. Schools have become shelters. Universities have been flattened. Yet people still pitch tents wherever they can. They rebuild their homes with plastic and prayer. Some decorate, even if the walls are made of nylon.

People are still having babies. Even when there’s no formula. No nappies. No guarantees. “Life must go on,” they say. And somehow, it does.

I’ve seen people cry and then sing in the same breath. I’ve watched a woman mourn her son and then hand her last piece of bread to a neighbour. These are the stories I try to capture. Stories of humanity under siege. Stories that refuse to be silenced.

Gaza is bleeding, yes. But it’s also living.

We smile. We laugh. We make things with our hands. We grow tomatoes from saved seeds. We build quilts from scraps. We make shadows of monsters on the walls with our phone lights and tell stories in the dark.

Because we are still here.
Because we love life.

Aya's story is based on a conversation with Becky Mansell and Shagufta Yaqub, Disasters Emergency Committee (DEC) on 9 May 2025 via video call from Gaza and edited by N'Deane Helajzen (Fairpicture).

DEC charities and their local partners continue to work tirelessly to support people in unimaginably difficult conditions, as they have been doing throughout their Middle East Humanitarian Appeal