Revisiting molokhia amid war and displacement in Gaza

Az-Zawayda, Gaza – A year ago, Siham Abu Shaaban made molokhia for Fork the System, explaining how it is considered a “lucky charm” of a dish that many families have to have on their Ramadan table.

This year, under vastly different, harrowing circumstances, she and her family made it again, recreating last year’s beautiful evening in a displacement camp in az-Zawayda as Israel’s war on Gaza destroys lives.

Six months into a relentless Israeli war on Gaza, Al Jazeera reached out to Siham to document the impact of the war on her and her family, and to cook again with a family that did not expect their lives to be turned upside down in less than a year.

Even getting in touch with Siham was challenging because the communications networks have been interrupted and degraded so much since the beginning of the war.

Last Ramadan, the skilled 41-year-old chef welcomed us into her elegant, well-appointed apartment while this year her new address is “a tent” amid thousands of tents for displaced families.

With arms full of bags of groceries, we headed out to find Siham, which took some time, again because of the weak network, and she eagerly waited by the roadside to guide us.

The first sight of Siham came as a shock to me. The once vibrant woman’s face now bore the marks of hardship: darker skin, signs of fatigue, and a lack of vitality.

Sensing my silent observation, Siham laughed wryly: “I’ve changed quite a bit, right?”

Her mother, with a weary sigh, echoed the sentiment, enveloping me in a tired embrace after I put down my bag of ingredients.

“Who hasn’t changed in this war, my dear? Look at my hands – they’re rougher than stones.”

Siham, her husband and three children live in a tent next to those where her parents, sisters and brother live, clustered together in a fenced-off area amid all the displacement tents.

Photographer Abdelhakim Abu Riash and I entered a small tent with worn-out utensils, a makeshift stove on the ground, several containers to fill with water, a wood fire, and a makeshift toilet partitioned off with a curtain.

Siham settled on the ground to pick the molokhia (jute mallow) leaves off the stalks, taking care to remove every last one.

“The price of molokhia has skyrocketed,” she said. “Prices surged during the war, necessities are now unaffordable. We’re paying four times what we used to.”

“You remember last year, we had a big table with all those dishes … for only 200 shekels [$54]. The heyday, Maram!” She exclaimed, chuckling with her mother.

Their ground-level seating is a far cry from their elegant dining table at home – a home that was hit by artillery shells and catching fire, according to what their neighbours, who stayed in the north, told them.

After being plucked, the molokhia has to be washed, a laborious task when the water has to be collected in plastic vats from communal storage tanks but Siham got to it, sitting cross-legged to swill the leaves around in water to make sure they are clean.

“I miss tap water… and the clean marble sink,” she muses over the loss of modern conveniences, then urges Abdelhakim to make sure the photos he takes of her are good.

Siham lifts the leaves out of the water by hand, squeezing out any excess water. “I used to let it air dry, but now it’s impossible – too much sand,” she explained.

What Siham misses above all, she tells us as she begins to chop the molokhia leaves with a makhrata, is the sense of home – its warmth, privacy and familiarity.

“Home is safety … I yearn for the tranquillity of our former routine, away from the chaos.”

Siham and her family were displaced south from Gaza City in November, after enduring nearly two months of non-stop bombing to remain “steadfast” in their home.

“I was rejecting the idea of leaving my home. How could I abandon everything I’ve worked for?

“But as the Israeli ground forces advanced and the bombing intensified, I had no choice. I had to flee, I was afraid for my children.”

The Abu Shaabans headed first to Nuseirat, in central Gaza, where they stayed in a relative’s home. When Nuseirat was invaded, they decided to evacuate towards Rafah but with Israel’s threats to invade Rafah as well, they ended up in az-Zawayda.

“There are no other options,” Siham says as she chops diligently away.

Siham’s mother had moved away to help her other daughter make chicken stock by simmering fresh chicken with seasonings, looking up every once in a while to make sure everybody was on task and cooking smoothly.

Siham is an ambitious chef who used to work in a women’s co-op but the war has stripped some of the joy out of her work.

“Cooking used to be my passion, and I took pride in every detail. I even had two separate kitchens – one for prep and another for cooking,” she says.

“I have to tell you, the war made me hate cooking and the kitchen.

“A kitchen without running water for cleaning, these insufficient, worn-out utensils we bought secondhand, and cooking over a wood fire with soot staining our pots.

“This is the first time in six months we’ll be having chicken,” Siham remarks as she carefully fishes the chicken pieces from the broth.

“It’s so expensive. There are 20 of us, we’d need several chickens. To get five chickens would cost 400 shekels [$108], let alone the rest of the items such as rice and cooking oil,” Siham explained gesturing at the ingredients Al Jazeera provided.

Siham’s parents were both helping prepare the food again, with her 65-year-old father, Abu Jumaa, taking on the same task again: preparing the traditional Gazan salad using a mortar and pestle.

“Today, the once-humble salad plate, a staple on our table, is considered a luxury due to its steep price,” Abu Jumaa remarks while slicing tomatoes. “This dish alone costs 50 shekels [$14] now.”

As sunset approached, the rhythm of preparations picked up and Siham and her sister ducked outside to quickly stuff some qatayef with a sweet crushed nut mixture, ready to be fried and soaked in syrup for dessert.

People bustled around, setting out what dishes and utensils they had on a tarp laid on the ground, a momentary cheerfulness taking hold as the family basked in being together.

Back in the cooking tent, Siham was kneeling by the stove to prepare the molokhia, a near-mystical moment as she slowly lowered the paste into the bubbling broth and checked its consistency, the most important thing in a molokhia.

Beside her, her mother tends to rice cooking away, ready to be garnished with a few nuts and raisins at the last minute.

After the molokhia’s consistency is safely assured, Siham’s father passes her the crushed garlic he had prepared for the tasha, the fragrant fried garlic splash that lifts a bowl of perfect consistency molokhia.

The kitchen tent is full of family members looking to see how they can help as the time to break the fast approaches.

The aroma of frying garlic filled the tent, making mouths water and heating things up just a little more, then the tshshshshsh sound of sizzling tasha hitting the molokhia signalled that it was time to get to the “table”.

“We usually break our fast together in the big tent, thanking God for everything,” Siham shares as she ladles molokhia into dishes.

“We’re all displaced here and endured great losses during the war. Our shared worries and pain have forged a strong bond among us. We’ve all tasted the bitterness of war and displacement.”

Making sure everyone gets their share, Siham diligently distributed the dishes as the call to Maghrib prayer announced the beginning of iftar.

Her prayer, echoed by all the displaced family members in the large tent, was a heartfelt plea: “Ya Rab [Lord], bring an end to this war and return us to our homes and lives safely.

“Amen.”