Two recipes, one tradition: Making musakhan in Gaza before and after the genocide

Even amidst genocide and starvation, Palestinians are resilient, altering our traditional recipes due to lack of food. But how resilient can we continue to be?

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Here, in Nuseirat Refugee Camp, I try to remember how my family made musakhan, Palestine’s national dish, before Gaza became an extermination camp, before every day of our lives became a struggle to stay alive. I remember the smell of chicken roasting, onions confiting in olive oil, the ground sumac berries staining it all deep red. 

While Israel had maintained a chokehold over Gaza’s food supply since its blockade in 2006, we had still managed tender chicken, fresh bread from the local bakery, and generous glugs of olive oil. But since last October, musakhan hasn’t been the same.

The day the genocide began, Oct. 7, 2023, I vividly remember the sound of explosions and a biting surge of fear that gripped everyone — its electric current connecting my entire family, all of us temporarily sharing one heartbeat. We huddled together in our home, trying to comprehend the enormity. When the power went out and the bombardment intensified, I was aware that nothing would ever be the same, and yet we also had no time to think about what that realization meant, especially for our food. 

I carry with me two different recipes for musakhan. One is from the time before this siege, when Gaza was a concentration camp instead of an extermination camp, when our humanity was constantly attacked but easier to preserve and protect. When we had olive oil. The second recipe is for a time of constant danger, days spent sifting through the remnants of dead bodies to find the living, and a mass displacement that has continued for more than a year. A recipe for the last drops of olive oil. 

Musakhan is not musakhan without olive oil. It’s made to celebrate the olive oil harvest in autumn, marking a time of tradition, family gathering, and gratitude for the blessings of the land. The chicken is soaked in olive oil, the onions simmered in its rich drippings, and the dish finished with a splash of oil and tangy sumac to balance the flavors. Almost as a prayer, my mother would say, “Olive oil is our gift from the land,” as she poured the green-golden oil over the dish, a symbol of abundance. I long for that musakhan.

Now, musakhan is a reflection of countless bombings and food blockades. Musakhan now looks different. Olive oil, once plentiful, is now rationed carefully. The bread is often homemade, as the bakeries — those that aren’t destroyed by missiles — struggle to keep up with the demand. Meat is scarce, so the chicken, once central to the meal, is usually replaced with lentils or beans. But the essence of the dish remains, reminding us of who we are, even when the world around us is unrecognizable. 

Since the genocide, gone are Gaza’s vibrant markets with fresh fruits, vegetables, and seafood filling the stalls. Gone are the families gathering to prepare elaborate meals, especially during holidays and big celebrations. Gone is the kitchen I once recognized, a place of joy and warmth, where my mother would make dishes like maqluba. 

Instead, our kitchen roams as we roam. Our kitchen is displaced; our kitchen is occupied. One day, our kitchen is an open flame or makeshift stove outside a tent, the next, it is in someone else’s home we can stay in for a short while before the bombings begin again. Our kitchen,  transient and undefined, is a constant reminder of what we have lost. 

Our loss was especially stark this past Ramadan. There were days when we broke our fast with just bread and water. The streets, once filled with the lively sounds of people preparing for iftar, were eerily quiet. Yet, even in those moments of hardship, we found strength in coming together, holding onto faith. 

And amid that faith, I also cannot help but wonder if my desire to taste musakhan unaltered is unattainable. If you had asked me on Oct. 6, 2023, I would have laughed because making musakhan was a simple trip to the market. Now, everything has changed. 

My family left north Gaza, grabbing what little we could and fleeing to the south. North Gaza has now become a site of mass extermination, with people dying of hunger and thirst, completely cut off from any help. The Israeli military has trapped them, and each day brings new destruction. Though we fled, our hearts are still with those who couldn’t escape, facing unimaginable horrors every day.  

Nuseirat camp, where I live with my family, is also the target of daily bombings, and the border closure has left us with little to survive on. Deliveries are blocked by Israel and its settlers, who stand at the edge of our borders and demand our people be starved. And we are — slowly, with barely enough aid trickling through to sustain life. 

Every day is a battle just to stay alive, and everything about our days is different, including how we eat. The markets are targets for bombs, blood staining the bread. The selection is sparse. Basic items like flour and rice are scarce and can be three times as expensive. Fresh produce and meat have become luxuries most families can’t afford.

When we do find food, cooking it is even an ordeal. Electricity shortages mean we can never be sure when we’ll have power to cook. Sometimes, we have to wait for hours or even days just to boil water. Substitutes like powdered milk instead of fresh, or canned meat instead of fresh meat, have become normal, but they lack the quality and nutrition we need. Cooking, which used to be a way to bring the family together, is now an act of survival. 

And yet, some things remain constants, even though they are constantly altered. Laughter still fills our home, but it's now mixed with fear and uncertainty. We still share smiles, though they are laced with worry. My younger brother still tells his jokes, trying to bring a little light into our dark days, and we cling to these small moments of normalcy. Hope, though tested, remains within us. And then there’s musakhan, the dish around which my family orbits, and our two recipes for it. Even altered it brings a sense of home, warmth, and unity, thanks in part to the prized olive oil it’s drenched in. 

For Palestinians, olive oil is more than just an ingredient — it’s a symbol of our identity, our land, and our resistance. Our olive trees, some of which have stood for thousands of years, are deeply intertwined with our history and our bond to the land. Some of these trees have witnessed thousands of years of struggle, survival, and hope. They’ve seen countless powers try to take the land, they’ve drank the blood of our martyrs, and they will soon witness our freedom. 

There’s something deeply emotional about standing among the olive trees, knowing they have stood for generations, or sometimes millennia. I feel a profound sense of pride and connection to my heritage, my ancestors, and the land itself, mixed with sorrow, as these trees have witnessed both joy and struggle. But not even the trees are safe from the siege. 

Many of our ancient olive trees have been destroyed by U.S.-made bombs, sent by Israel. The sight of a razed orchard — the twisted trunks, shattered branches, scorched earth, shredded roots — is soul-killing. It’s more than just the loss of trees — it’s the destruction of our connection to the land, our history, our heritage. 

When we do have olive oil, we cherish it even more. We drizzle it sparingly over bread, dip vegetables into it, and use it to cook what little we have, knowing that it carries with it centuries of tradition. Whether we have much or little, our love for olive oil remains constant, representing not only sustenance but also our enduring connection to the land.

For Gazans, traditional meals serve as a powerful symbol of identity, a testament to our resilience, a means for families to bond even during the toughest circumstances. Like the olive tree, deeply rooted in the soil of Palestine, our culinary traditions are intertwined with our history, our struggles, and our hopes for the future.

My two recipes enrage me, changing something so symbolic of our culture because of this brutal oppression. It is heartbreaking to see a dish so deeply tied to our identity and heritage altered by the harsh realities of genocide. But resilience is who we are, and this is not the first time Gazans have had to adapt. 

Since the early 1990s, Israel has controlled and limited Gaza’s food supply. Growing up, I remember my grandmother spending hours in the kitchen, carefully preparing dishes that had been passed down through generations. But as the years went on and fresh meat, dairy, and certain vegetables became scarcer, Gazans were forced to adapt their recipes to what is available. Yet, we always found a way.

In Gaza, cooking food is more than a necessity; it’s a way of resisting. If the occupation can make food a weapon, so can we — a weapon to liberate us instead of subjugating us. By continuing to cook our traditional meals, even in the face of adversity, we are preserving our culture and our history. 

Every time my family gathers around the table to share a meal, we are defying the forces that seek to erase our identity. We share our recipes with family overseas to keep traditions alive across borders. We stay connected through these recipes, ensuring that the essence of our culture lives on, no matter where we are. Under siege, making dishes like musakhan may be rare, but when we do, it’s a celebration. It’s a way of saying that no matter what happens, we will not be broken.

In a world that often reduces Gaza to images of destruction and despair, it’s important to remember the strength of its people. And yet, there is often a tension between feeling proud of our resilience and the overwhelming burden of having to always be resilient. It can be exhausting to always be in survival mode, to have the world praise your strength while not helping you live. Although I know my strength is an ancestral gift, I long for the freedom to simply live. I long for musakhan swimming in olive oil, topped with pine nuts and fresh parsley.