Gaza Diary: How I risk Death to feed my Family

Before the war, Hassan was a university student chasing his dreams. Now he risks his life every day to feed his family

(OpenDemocracy.net ) – It’s 7am. My alarm rings and I get myself ready, just as I used to in the days when I would drink a cup of mint tea and eat a falafel sandwich before heading to university with friends.

Now, the alarm signals that it’s time for me to go out to sea again. Amid the deadly famine in Gaza, survival has replaced study. I have gone from an English translation student chasing his dreams to a fisherman trying desperately to feed his starved family.

Every morning for almost a month now, I wake and head out on the water. In doing so, I am putting myself in severe danger; the Israeli military declared Gaza’s waters a “no-go zone” earlier this year, banning all fishing, swimming, and other sea access.

But I have no choice. The famine, which the UN officially confirmed last week, has got drastically worse since Israel’s occupation returned with greater brutality in mid-March after a two-month ceasefire. As the only adult son, my parents and my three younger siblings rely on me to provide food.

When the pause in the fighting was announced in January, I returned to our home for the first time in nine months. At the start of the war, my greatest fear had been being displaced. By the start of this year, it had already happened five times.

I found my home in ruins, reduced to ashes. I no longer recognised my street or my city. At that point, it was the worst moment of my life.

During the ceasefire, things started to improve a little. My family – my parents, my siblings, Malak, Mohammed, and Alaa, and I – had spent nine months living in a tent, but now we were able to move in with a relative who lived near our home.

Slowly, we began to rebuild ourselves, both mentally and physically. I continued to go back to the ruins of our home every day to salvage whatever I could. Life started to return: markets reopened, some goods became available, people met without fear of bombing, and I could finally sleep without the constant drones.

I eagerly waited for the crossings to open so we could travel and pursue our dreams. My university studies had been suspended for two years, while my younger siblings’ school education has been on hold for three years, since before the war began.

Then, the genocide returned. Since then, no area in Gaza has been safe. The situation is far worse than before, with intensified bombing, shelling, displacement and killings happening everywhere. We have been forced to evacuate for the sixth time, leaving my relative’s house and returning to the same tent.

As its attacks resumed, Israel also introduced a blockade on aid trucks. Food became scarce, prices soared, and famine worsened over the next two months.

Eventually, the US- and Israel-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF) took over the distribution of food. Presented as help, aid became a death trap. The distribution centres were in areas we had been told to evacuate from, and dozens were killed or injured while trying to reach them.

Chaos spread across Gaza, and prices hit record highs. As the situation has worsened and resources have grown scarcer, my family, like most families in Gaza, often have only one meal a day: a piece of bread and a cup of tea.

But even these foods are scarce. Families rely on alternatives – making ‘bread’ with crushed pasta or lentils in place of flour, and ‘coffee’ with roasted and ground chickpeas. Sugar is now a luxury costing more than $100, so people use high-fructose corn syrup despite its risks to children and those with chronic illnesses.

We no longer eat for enjoyment, but to survive.

Bartering has also become essential due to the difficulty of obtaining cash from banks and the high charges on withdrawals. People trade what they have, but many have little to offer. I remember trying to exchange a small electric scale for flour or rice on an online barter page. In the end, I got four kilos of pasta for it, the only thing available at that time.

By 1 August 2025, we didn’t have any bread left in our tent. I had 200 shekels (around $60) in my bank account, but when I went to a cash liquidity seller, I could only withdraw 100 due to the charges. I took the money to a GHF aid centre, hoping to buy something to feed my family.

After walking to the centre on an empty stomach, under the scorching sun, I collapsed on arrival. When I regained consciousness minutes later, I realised my $100 had been stolen. That moment felt even worse than the first time I was displaced or when I realised that my home had been bombed.

I knew then that famine was harsher than anything else I had endured. As I walked back to the tent, I was overwhelmed with despair, not knowing how I was going to return to my family empty-handed. My eyes burned and breathing felt heavy, as if grief was choking me. I decided to sit by the sea for a while, unsure what I would say to my family.

Standing on the shore, I saw a boat approaching. Two fishermen, worn and weak like shadows, struggled to pull it ashore. I called out and walked over to help. Out of nowhere, I heard myself asking if I could become a fisherman with them.

“Do you know how to handle a fishing rod?” they asked. I didn’t, but I said I could swim and would help them however I could in exchange for some of their catch to feed my family.

They told me, “We leave just after dawn and return around noon, usually empty-handed. Sometimes we catch turtles to eat. There are many dangers; boats are targeted, some fishermen captured, and random gunfire hits us daily.”

I remembered seeing a video of a young man being targeted by an Israeli strike while at sea. But what choice did I have? “I’ll go with you,” I said, without hesitation. They told me to come back early the next morning.

Before the war, Hassan was a university student chasing his dreams. Now he risks his life every day to feed his family | Photo supplied by the author

When I returned to the tent, my family was shocked by my tired appearance. I told my them everything, and my mother cried without realizing it. I drank some water and tried to rest, eventually falling asleep hungry.

The next day, the alarm rang – my old university alarm. I didn’t turn it off immediately, I wanted to dream a little about my past life: my university, the bus, the cafeteria, my friends’ chatter, my dreams that have slipped away.

“Hassan, wake up! The alarm is ringing!” My brother Mohammed’s voice woke me. I was back in the nightmare I cannot escape.

Since then, every day I have gone out to sea, despite all its dangers, cast my fishing net and my line, and hoped to come back with food for my starving family. Sometimes I work long hours under the relentless sun, and other times in the cold early morning when no life stirs around me.

I know well that one day I might never return. Earlier this year, the UN reported that the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights has documented multiple cases of fishers being “targeted generally without warning, while fishing using paddling boats posing no discernible threats to the Israeli Naval Force, resulting in their death or injury”.

But despite all my fears, I go to sea, and I hold on to hope for a better tomorrow.

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Hassan Herzallah is a Palestinian translator and writer based in Gaza.

Via OpenDemocracy.net

his article is published under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International licence.