The last time I tried to get food aid in Gaza, I nearly died. It was early morning in Rafah, and I hadn’t eaten properly in days. I woke before the sun rose, stomach aching, body weak, and met up with my friend Abu Naji. We planned to walk five kilometers to a zone near al-Alam — “the Flag,” as people call it — where humanitarian aid was rumored to be distributed. Word on the street said it…
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