By chance, I visited a friend’s house, where his brother had just managed to get a few kilograms of flour from the western Gaza area; flour soaked in blood. He handed me a loaf of white bread, and I could hardly believe my eyes. A surge of emotion washed over me, and I felt like crying, but my pride held the tears at bay. Another part of me reminded me that this blessing, once taken for granted, had become precious and I should not underestimate that.
I took a few bites of that warm bread, feeling a profound sadness that it would soon be gone, leaving me with only the fodder that had hardened our stomachs after a single daily meal.
Unable to eat it all myself, I saved two-thirds of the loaf, tucking it under my jacket. I returned home, eager to share my joy with my family. I divided the bread among my four children whose emaciated bodies had suffered from that wretched fodder. For them, those small morsels were more precious than any holiday or new clothes. Those moments were filled with pure happiness and joy.
Later, remembering that our supply of fodder had run out, I set out to find a pound of something to ease our hunger.
Wissam Al-Motawaq
