War in Gaza: chef who lost everything offers comfort through makeshift meals

journalist’s notes

interview subject

Hamada Shaqoura, 33, has become a food blogger and humanitarian advocate amid the Gaza war, celebrated for his innovative cooking videos that bring joy and sustenance to displaced and impoverished children in the region. Starting his career as a marketing professional and social media consultant, Hamada initially focused on food reviews and restaurant experiences in Gaza. However, the impact of ongoing conflict, including the destruction of his home and subsequent displacement, inspired him to shift his focus. He began creating accessible, creative recipes using limited ingredients from humanitarian aid packages, often collaborating with neighbors to make meals that uplift the children in their camp. His heartfelt culinary work transforms hardship into moments of relief and connection. Check out his Instagram.

background information

The Gaza Strip is enduring a protracted humanitarian crisis, exacerbated by years of conflict and blockades that have severely damaged infrastructure and restricted access to essential resources. Since October 7, 2023, the situation has worsened significantly, with escalating violence and bombardments displacing thousands of families multiple times within Gaza and leaving millions facing severe food insecurity. The lack of access to fresh food and clean water has resulted in alarming levels of starvation, particularly affecting children, who suffer from malnutrition and the psychological trauma of living in a conflict zone. Read more.

GAZA, Palestine — Before October 7, 2023, my life felt entirely different. I spent my days working as a food critic, running a marketing company, and building a future with my wife. We dreamed of a life filled with adventures and travel.

The war in Palestine, however, became a relentless monster. It shattered our plans, forcing me to leave home, say goodbye to friends, and reinvent myself as a makeshift chef. Now, my mission is to cook, not just to survive but to comfort others in a place where hopelessness and hunger remain constant.

Read more stories from Gaza at Orato World Media.

Bombs shattered our peace, forcing us to flee our home

The walls vibrated, and the flickering light from our only bulb cast shadows over our wedding photos. It felt like a haunting reminder of what once was. On a silent afternoon, bombs exploded with relentless force, like endless thunder in Gaza. The blasts stole my breath, emptied me, and stopped time itself.

The roar of destruction echoed through every corner of our small apartment. I looked at my wife, and without words, we knew we needed to flee. We packed a small bag—photos, clothes for our unborn child, and my mother’s old recipe book. Dust and ash thickened the air outside, choking us and stinging our eyes. Crowds filled the streets like a desperate human tide seeking safety. The metallic scent of gunpowder filled the air.

We pressed on for blocks as danger breathed down our necks. To the sound of sobs and screams, we ran knowing our home might not survive. Reaching my brother’s house, I saw despair on my mother’s face. It barely felt like a home with the stark, cold walls enclosing us like a cage. We had no running water or light.

Our voices and footsteps echoed off the concrete during the rare moments of silence between explosions. Each explosion rattled the ground, and I watched my wife cover her ears and shut her eyes tightly. Sleep became impossible that night. We exchanged glances in the dim light, worn down by fear and exhaustion, clinging to the fragile hope that we would somehow be all right.

My war mission: feeding others however I could

Within days, we learned my brother’s house lay in an area that would become a target. The line between life and death grew thinner daily, and we, along with hundreds of others, were swept up into the relentless current of displacement. Seeking refuge felt more like a dream than reality. Our journey led us to Khan Younis, joining a caravan of desperate people carrying children and whatever belongings remained.

The hours led us on a grueling procession through streets reduced to rubble. Smoke and dust from explosions left a bitter taste in our mouths. The unrelenting sun deepened our exhaustion as we walked into the grim reality of survival. In Khan Younis, we crammed into a temporary shelter with other families who lost everything. The cold, unforgiving ground and the suffocating air of sweat, fear, and dust made sleep impossible. My parents, siblings, and wife clung to the hope of rest. Each distant explosion shattered any sense of security. No corner could truly shield us from the chaos.

Survival forced me to rediscover myself, and I realized no outside help would come; we were on our own. On the streets, I saw familiar faces—people who had once owned businesses, families who had known comfort. The haunted eyes of the children shattered my heart. They were hungry and witnessing their suffering pushed me to act. With no clear plan, I embraced a new mission born from war, to feed others however I could.

My first time cooking on a makeshift stove

The first time I stood before the makeshift stove—an old gas burner set on a few empty boxes—I felt uncertain. A question crossed my mind. When had feeding others become my duty? Yet, there I was, grounded on dusty floors, offering whatever small act of resistance I could. The setting felt like a broken puzzle, with remnants of a past life scattered around in the form of shattered pottery and furniture. Framed by cracked, blackened walls, I lit the stove, not knowing if what I offered would be enough.

With just a couple of onions, lentils, and a handful of rice, I rationed each ingredient with utmost care. As the water boiled, its sound infused the air with a tiny spark of hope. The onions’ aroma drifted out, drawing people closer. Children came first, their large eyes following my every move, as if watching me cook was a glimpse into another, gentler world. Little by little, the space filled with people. Young mothers held their children and elderly men and women enjoyed the scent of food. Some approached hesitantly, unsure if they belonged, while others seemed almost pulled by the aroma, bringing memories of home and better times.

I knew they were hungry, but I sensed they also craved a touch of normalcy, even if it was just through a simple meal of lentils and rice. Some offered to help, chopping the few vegetables we had. People contributed to a moment that felt like a shared piece of humanity. Each person carried a story, and their eyes conveyed desperation intertwined with hope. The lineup became a fleeting sanctuary, where we could momentarily feel connected and remember what it meant to belong.

Risking my life daily for ingredients and water

“Is it for everyone?” some would ask when they saw the food. Others spoke volumes with their eyes. At first, I doubted if my efforts made any a difference, but each day the line grew longer. Cooking became a meaningful routine, and I learned to stretch every ingredient, adding as much flavor as I could to what little we had. Most days, I navigated rubble and scoured makeshift markets for food, relying on luck and the rare generosity of others. Even the smallest bag of rice felt like a treasure.

When humanitarian aid arrived, the market briefly came alive. Though the wait proved long, it gave me the opportunity to prepare something special. Initially, I managed only a few dishes daily, but as more people relied on my meals, I adapted. Recording my cooking on video became viral lifelines, inspiring others in camps to cook and share. Every step, even fetching water, carried risk, but it was all part of the fight to keep hope alive.

Each day before dawn, I navigated the devastated streets of Khan Younis, clutching a bottle in search of water. The sky loomed black and menacing, while every step felt precarious, as if something could fall from above at any moment. The silence of the city, interrupted only by distant explosions, amplified my fear. My footsteps echoed across the rubble-strewn ground, and those I passed carried the same haunting sadness in their eyes. Water sources remain treacherous becoming places where danger lurks. Sometimes I return empty-handed, the bottle feeling heavier with defeat. Other times, I bring back murky, scarce water, rationing it like our last breath.

We became perpetual war nomads

Travel soon became a constant necessity. We moved further south to Rafah as the bombs closed in. We avoided main roads, taking back routes to stay hidden. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon us. Rafah offered brief respite but was far from ideal. As cold wind tore through our makeshift tents, we huddled together, trying to believe it would end soon. Yet, war reached everywhere, forcing us to become perpetual nomads.

Eventually, we returned to Khan Younis, where devastation surrounded us. The destruction was unimaginable: buildings reduced to ruins and blank stares reflecting in people’s eyes. We were changed. My family settled into a makeshift shelter. Despite feeling like we stood on the edge of an abyss, we persevered. For me, that meant reigniting the fire and cooking again. That evening, as I pulled a pot of lentil soup from the stove, I noticed a young boy watching me. Dressed in dirty, oversized clothes, he accepted a bowl I offered, gripping it with a mix of hunger and caution.

Every bite was slow, as though he wanted to savor or save it. Halfway through, he looked up and whispered, “My mom used to make me something like this.” I froze. That simple sentence carried the weight of countless untold stories. My heart ached as I imagined him, at some point in his short life, savoring a warm meal lovingly prepared by his mother. He found a connection in that bowl of soup—a fragile bridge back to a happier home. As he ate, I realized that the soup became a memory capsule, a way to revisit better times. Watching him, I too remembered my mother’s kitchen, feeling deeply connected to him, as if time and space had dissolved.

A bowl of soup can’t heal all pain, but it brings comfort

It was a cold morning when a woman approached with her young son, both wrapped in worn blankets barely shielding them from the cold. Her face revealed the evidence of sleepless nights, carved into her features. In a low, almost apologetic voice, she asked for food. As I served chickpea stew, I noticed her son hiding behind her, clinging to her leg. Slowly, he peeked out and shyly extended his hand toward the food, afraid it might vanish if he touched it.

When he took his first bite, I saw something change in his expression. The fear faded, replaced by curiosity, even a flicker of joy—a light I had not seen in a long time. At that moment, my simple cooking became a breath of life and a source of warmth. The woman thanked me quietly, clutching the plate. Tears streamed down her weathered face as she stared at the stew, her relief clear. Through sobs, she told me it was her first hot meal in days. Speechless, I felt a mix of sadness and helplessness. I knew one bowl of stew could not heal all her pain, but it offered some comfort.

As they left, the wind beat against their blankets. I stood there for a long while, feeling something profoundly different. One afternoon, while serving stews and soups in our makeshift communal kitchen, I noticed a little girl, no older than five, wearing a tulle dress that had once been pink but was now dusty and frayed. She approached with her mother, a blend of anticipation and shyness in her gaze. Her mother paused and told me it was her daughter’s birthday. The words felt fragile, as if celebrating anything amidst such devastation was almost out of place.

Moments of joy through cooking amid war: an improvised cake lighted dreams

I immediately gathered what I could: some cookies and a bit of chocolate powder I saved for a special occasion. With almost ceremonial care, I put together a small, improvised cake while the little girl watched in awe. Suddenly, someone found a single, forgotten candle buried at the bottom of a backpack. We lit it, and for a moment, warmth filled the room, the kind that only dreams and wishes can create. The little girl closed her eyes and blew out the candle amidst laughter and applause, and for that brief moment, the war seemed to vanish.

On days when resources remain scarce, I find ways to engage the children, creating impromptu cooking classes. One afternoon, I gathered a small group and taught them to make pita bread. For them, this simple act became an adventure. I opened my mother’s old cookbook as if sharing a story, and we got to work. The children eagerly watched as I mixed flour and water, then took turns kneading the dough, their excitement filling the air. While they worked, I shared stories of recipes their grandmothers might have made, encouraging them to learn and pass down these traditions.

When the bread finished baking, the children eagerly tasted their creations, treating each bite like a delicacy. Their joy filled the space, and laughter spread as they relished their success. Watching them transform from anxious to empowered felt like a small and meaningful victory. The children experienced a sense of creation, not victimhood, and that simple act carried the power of resistance. It gave them and me a tiny escape from the harshness surrounding us, and the depth of that moment moved me profoundly.

An aid package lifted our spirits: a fresh mango transported us far from the destruction

During the long weeks of rationing, a small miracle lifted our spirits: an aid package with fresh fruit. The sight of mangoes, a rare luxury, left everyone astonished. One little boy, who seemed to have forgotten what fresh fruit even looked like, held a mango in his hands, his eyes wide with awe. Determined to make this moment unforgettable, I banged a pot to call everyone together. Carefully slicing the mango into small pieces, I watched as happiness spread. Children savored the sweetness, eyes closed in delight, momentarily transported to a world far from the destruction.

An older man, usually serious, placed a piece in his mouth and began to laugh, sharing stories from his childhood about stealing mangoes from trees. His laughter became contagious, spreading through our small corner of the world and filling it with shared joy. In that brief, magical moment, we shared more than mangoes. We shared memories, laughter, and a sense of community that the war tried to steal. The mango became a symbol of hope and a key to a happier place, if only for a little while.

War, however, does not just take lives. It severs connections and erases shared experiences. The hardest moments come when I search online for news of my friends, only to find more faces gone and more final goodbyes. Social media becomes a minefield of grief, each visit revealing another loss. So many have died that sometimes I wonder if it is easier not to know, but guilt gnaws at me if I turn away. Each friend represented a piece of my life, and with every loss, I feel myself slowly fading. It feels as though the war erases the world around me and the pieces of who I am.

My cooking eases some suffering but feels like fighting a fire with a glass of water

Since the attacks began, friends, colleagues, and familiar faces have disappeared. The first loss came through Facebook—a name and face in a goodbye post. I remembered our last conversation and his dreams. Then, suddenly, he was gone. Now, every time I connect to the internet, I dread finding another face lost. Walking through the city, I see ghosts everywhere, aching to hear their laughter again. The streets we once shared feel empty, leaving me with only echoes. This profound loss is a deep wound that time has yet to heal.

My recipes might not change the world, but if they can offer warmth to someone in the middle of this devastation, then I have done something worthwhile. With winter’s arrival, a worry more as the cold grips me. People shiver in tents without proper shelter or food. My work eases some suffering but feels like fighting a fire with a glass of water. Some nights, I wonder if it will ever end, or if my name will become one of many forgotten.

The thought of my child growing up in this shattered world haunts me, but as long as I can move, I will keep cooking, offering glimpses of comfort. The day I heard the first bomb, I lost not only my home but a piece of myself. Every day since, I battle to keep hope alive, holding on to my humanity amid so much destruction. Here in Gaza, survival means more than enduring. It means preserving our spirit. Each time I serve a meal, I feel a flicker of peace, knowing that, if only for a moment, I am bringing light to others.