I’ve just finished a water-only 48-hour hunger strike. Led by Eli Goldstone, 40+ people, mostly (but not all) writers, myself included, have been fasting or are about to fast, to urge people to donate to The Sameer Project. It is one of the organisations already in Gaza who are able to buy (hugely expensive) food directly from farmers and distribute water and tents.
Why do it? I was fuelled by helplessness. Like most people, I’d been frantically donating what I could to as many families directly as I came across on Instagram; emailing my MP and David Lammy; and crying at the various images that were being shared online. I felt like I was going mad. When I saw author Kiran Millwood Hargrave starting her fast on Thursday, I felt a deep urge to do it too. It seemed a robust, tangible thing to do. I fought it for a day or so, as I was honestly just scared of the thought of not eating for that long (and I do really love eating), but I knew that that was the very reason I should do it. The ultimate expression of solidarity, of a tiny attempt to understand a speck of the pain, loss of dignity, and horror being experienced by the people of Palestine. I was buoyed by the fact that writers in the group of strikers (predictably, we have a WhatsApp group), have been speaking to some poets in Gaza, who have been touched by this movement.
Here’s how it went.
FRIDAY
4.50pm
I absently eat a bag of Chipsticks - salty, sharp - and a deliciously ripe peach I had been saving. On the walk to pick my daughter up from nursery I realise that my fast needs to start now. It should start now. I am scared, though, so as the first few hours pass I am not sure if I’ll cave and just end up having supper with Patrick.
7.00pm (2 hours)
I’m sticking with it. I demand that Patrick lets me cook for him. My brain, as I suspected it might be, is tricked - the soothing and familiar movements of making a pile of buttery scrambled eggs on toast with avocado means it doesn’t feel that strange to sit down and not eat.
10.30pm (5.5 hours)
I feel fine, although the reality of what I’m doing is sinking in. Sunday afternoon seems very far away. Bed.
SATURDAY
6.ooam (13 hours)
I’m gently hungry, but all feels normal. I woke a few times in the night, thirsty, but worried about waking my metabolism up by drinking water, so avoided it.
I am a naturally greedy person who relishes eating. I am most worried about absentmindedly eating something, even licking the crumbs from my fingers after making my children toast. I’ve been warned about making sure you do something to replace the dead gap of mealtimes, but I’ve found it’s been easier than anticipated - as with making Patrick’s supper, the fact I prepare my children’s meals is lulling my brain somehow, like it doesn’t realise I’m not actually eating the food I’m plating up.
12pm (19 hours)
I have just fed my children their lunch. It’s honestly my dream meal on the best of days, so now it looks heavenly. I think of it as a 90s lunchbox: hula hoops, a cheese string, buttered cheese scone from M&S, a ripe pear that slips through the knife, cold chicken. I want to eat everything. Coco eats her hula hoops and half of her cheese string and gets down. Goldie eats her cucumber and pear, and then Coco’s pear. There’s so much food left. Patrick eats it so it doesn’t go to waste but I want to shake them.
2.30pm (21.5 hours)
Headache. The WhatsApp group suggests adding sea salt to water. I put a pinch into my bottle, drink.
6.00pm (25 hours)
Over halfway there. 5pm tomorrow feels so far away. Headache has receded but still there. I’ve been active with my children, and have felt dizzy a few times, but my head is becoming worse. Drinking water.
8.00pm (28 hours)
I’ve been guzzling water to dim the headache. I am halfway through a film with Patrick when he pauses it and asks if I want to stop; I’ve been slumping into more and more of a reclined position. I sit up and realise that I think I am going to be sick. I sprint to the bathroom and vomit copiously. It’s just water coming up, of course.
9.30pm (29.5 hours)
Feel a bit woozy. I go to bed early. I want it to be tomorrow. My head feels like it’s splitting. Patrick swipes 4Head on my brow as I wait for sleep and it helps.
SUNDAY
6.30am (37.5 hours)
Slept fitfully but wake to no headache and no real hunger beyond a “what’s for breakfast” type emptiness. Had a very vivid dream about going to one of those instant ramen shops.
10.00am (41 hours)
We go to our traditional Sunday-morning coffee shop. Patrick has a coffee and a dense-looking cookie (in a good way). Chocolate chip. Goldie (18 months) eats most of a lemon curd muffin. Coco (4 years old) has a gingerbread man and a smoothie. I am paying very close attention. Every time I feed Goldie a morsel of cake I wipe my fingertips obsessively so I don’t absentmindedly lick them.
12.00pm (43 hours)
Make the girls’ lunch. They eat a fair bit. I feel good about this, and wish I could eat their leftovers.
1.00pm (44 hours)
Stomach is rumbling, for the first time, really. I go and smell the nectarine I know I will eat first when I break the fast. It smells almost floral, perfectly ripe. I down water. Not long now.
4pm (47 hours)
Making a cake with my eldest; we have had two bananas languishing in a bowl for too long, which calls for banana bread. I am so careful not to lick the batter off my fingers, but I have vicarious pleasure of giving Coco the spatula, and knowing I will probably (against general advice when coming off a fast) have a slice of the cake later today.
5pm (48 hours)
I cut up the nectarine in advance. My children have just finished their supper but as soon as I bring it in, they (as I knew they would) reach for it. The fast is over. We share it, and tastes intensely sweet and glorious. Biting down on something again is deeply satisfying. It’s perfect.
Concluding thoughts
The Saturday evening vomathon and the headache were the low point, but at no point did I despair. I know it’s a symbolic gesture, this fast, because I knew that I would eat again - I knew when I would eat again - I even knew what I would eat again, this ludicrously picture-perfect nectarine that had been ripening over the past few days. I had unlimited, fresh water. My family were still eating gloriously, gluttonously around me. Still, it was remarkable to experience the stages of the body protesting against the sudden cessation of being fed; the irritability, the bouts of dizziness, the slight feeling as though I was walking 1cm off the ground. To be starving with no end in sight must be maddening. To see it happening to your children and being powerless to stop it must be hell.
Please let’s do all we can to get food to them. Donate here, or to any family you see online where the money goes to them so they can buy the scarce food, have another meal. I don’t believe the aid finally going in will do much good, or will be able to reach all those who need it any time soon.
And do join the strike if you feel like you can.
I hope this encourages people to donate. Several beautiful family members and friends and acquaintances have let me know they’ve donated to The Sameer Project which is all I wanted from these two days of hunger, really.
Thanks for reading. Normal service next time.
Emma this is so brilliantly written. Definitely sharing the frustration of my kids not eating food in a far more visceral than ‘there are starving kids’ way xx