In Gaza, coffee is more than a drink. For residents living through its brutal war, the beverage has been a rite, a coping mechanism, a connection to normality. But that cherished comfort has become a rare luxury, nearly unattainable due to border closures, supply chain collapse and the suffocating effects of a conflict that has dragged on for nearly 21 months.
Loay Abu Shaar, 34, a resident of the Al Nasr district, remembers the early days of the war when the withdrawal began. “Before the war, I used to buy half a kilo of coffee every week and drink coffee three times a day,” he told The National. “My brain got used to it, I couldn’t do without it.”
But when he was forcibly displaced to the south, the coffee disappeared within days. “I started feeling like my head was splitting. I was addicted, and not just to coffee, but to cigarettes too. Both were gone. I couldn’t find balance any more.”
Coffee, prepared in the Turkish style, has long been a central part of Gaza’s culture. Even under siege, even with electricity cuts and food shortages, the smell of freshly ground beans often filled homes, alleys and refugee camps. “People in Gaza are known for their love of coffee,” says Saeb Shaheen, 43, who comes from a family of coffee sellers. “Especially smokers, we’re among the heaviest coffee drinkers in the world.”
Mr Shaheen, who has continued to roast and sell coffee during the war, even after being displaced from his home in the Jabalia camp, says he watched supplies dwindle and prices skyrocket.
“At first, coffee was still available in the north where I stayed. But then it began to vanish. A kilo went from 40 shekels [$12] to 100 dollars, and now it's reached 2,000 shekels per kilo,” he says. “I still try to sell, but I have to mix beans with chickpeas, lentils and cardamom to make it stretch. We sell that mix for 800 shekels. It’s not real coffee, but what can we do?”
resident of Al Shati refugee camp
Nesma Hameed, 47, from Al Shati refugee camp, said the shortages feel personal. “In my house, with my husband and three kids, we used to consume a kilo of coffee a week. It was our thing,” she told The National. “Coffee lifts your mood. It calms your nerves. It’s how we cope with life here. When that was taken from us, it felt like a part of us was gone.”
Ms Hameed is among many Gazans who see the disappearance of coffee as part of a larger pattern of deprivation imposed on them by Israeli restrictions on the entry of goods. “It’s not just about coffee. It’s about stripping us of the few things that bring us comfort," she says. "We’re not just hungry, we’re emotionally drained. And when you take coffee away from someone in Gaza, you take away a piece of their resilience.”
Unable to afford what little real coffee remains, many residents have turned to desperate substitutes, roasting lentils, chickpeas or barley in attempts to mimic the bitter, earthy flavour.
“It tastes terrible, but I still drink it," Mr Abu Shaar admits. "I think my hand just got used to holding the cup. Without it, I get irritable. I yell at my wife and kids for no reason. It’s like something in me is missing.”
This war has changed the face of Gaza in countless ways, but perhaps few changes are as quietly telling as the absence of coffee, the aroma no longer wafting through its streets and homes.
“Coffee is tied to our pain and our peace,” says Mr Shaheen. “When it’s gone, it’s like even the small joys we had are under attack.”
Until the borders reopen, until supplies resume, Gaza’s coffee drinkers remain in limbo, deprived of not only a drink but of a rite that once gave rhythm to their days and strength to their spirit.
"The first thing I’ll do, once coffee is available, is prepare a large amount and offer it to passers-by on the road, so our joy can be shared with coffee," Ms Hameed says.
