As the U.S. public begins to wake up to the reality of mass starvation in Gaza, recent mainstream media reports have issued a bold claim: Some cases of starvation can be explained not by the Israeli government’s near-total blockade on food, but by chronic illnesses. 

The New York Post attempted to cast doubt on reports of starvation by suggesting that a small child’s skeletal frame was caused not by famine, but by cerebral palsy and other genetic disorders — as if a medical diagnosis could somehow cancel out the consequences of hunger. The New York Times issued a correction to its own story concerning the same child, noting that while he did suffer severe malnutrition, he “also had pre-existing health problems.”

But for those living with chronic illness or disability in Gaza, hunger is not separate from their condition — it is made worse by it. Medications have disappeared. Treatments have stopped. And basic survival has become a daily battle. Under total blockade, diabetes or a thyroid condition can become a death sentence.

The Intercept spoke to nine Palestinians with chronic illnesses or disabilities across Gaza, including two children, many of whom agreed to be interviewed on the condition that only their first name be published. Their experiences reveal that illness and starvation are deeply interconnected. Rather than explaining the other away, they intensify each other.

Every day, Deya’a,16, hopes to find a vial of insulin. But pharmacies are empty, aid rarely arrives, and electricity cuts stretch for hours, sometimes days, threatening to spoil what little insulin he manages to secure.

“I speak from a place where tomorrow is uncertain,” he told The Intercept. 

Living with diabetes was difficult in Gaza before the war, but Israel’s attacks have made his condition life-threatening on a daily basis.

“I often inject less than the required dose, and sometimes I skip it entirely, knowing it’s slowly destroying me,” he said.

When his sugar drops, there is nothing to eat. No sugar cubes, no dates, not even bread. Hunger is indiscriminate, devouring both the sick and the healthy alike.

When his sugar spikes, Deya’a struggles to bring it down. 

Without blood sugar test strips, he cannot tell whether his blood sugar levels are too high or too low. He only recognizes danger through sudden symptoms: dizziness, profuse sweating, blurred vision, or collapse.

Beyond the physical toll, Deya’a said, the psychological strain is crushing. Fear, anxiety, grief, and loss push his blood sugar higher.

“I am not asking for much,” he said. “Just to live. To find my medication. To feel safe. To dream of a tomorrow where my illness does not suffocate me, and war does not kill me.”

The Intercept spoke to two other diabetes patients, Sabri and Nazmiya, both 78 and were born in the year of the Nakba. More than seven decades later, they face another catastrophe.

“We both developed diabetes after 60,” Sabri said, his voice thin and his hands trembling from low blood sugar. “But back then, we had medicine. We could eat. Now we have neither.”

Displaced by the war, the couple now live in a tent in Gaza’s Beach refugee camp, exposed to the searing summer heat. Their age and chronic conditions mean their health is rapidly declining.

Nazmiya has collapsed multiple times from dangerously low blood sugar. “She blacks out,” Sabri explained. “We rush her to the field hospital, but they can only monitor her. They have no insulin, no tablets, no glucose strips — nothing.”

Both are Type 2 diabetics, requiring daily medication like metformin, glibenclamide, or insulin. According to the World Health Organization, untreated diabetes in elderly patients can lead to severe complications including hypoglycemia and death.

Before the war, they received medication monthly from government clinics. “Since the war started, the shelves are empty,” Sabri recalls. “There’s nothing left.”

Even more perilous than missing medicine is the lack of food, especially sugar, crucial for treating low blood sugar episodes. “Sugar is gone from the market,” Nazmiya says weakly. “When it’s there, we can’t afford it. So we eat less, and our blood sugar crashes.”

“We’re not just sick. We’re abandoned.”

Without proper nutrition, the elderly face fatigue, dizziness, confusion, and falls. For diabetics, skipping meals without adjusting medication can trigger a dangerous cycle known as iatrogenic hypoglycemia — caused not just by the disease, but by inadequate care.

In Gaza, care is all but gone.

Inside the tents, temperatures soar past 95°F during the day, worsening dehydration and blood sugar imbalances. The couple mainly survives on lentils — “not enough, but it’s all we have,” Sabri says.

Malnutrition has taken its toll. Nazmiya weighs only 88 pounds; Sabri, 132 pounds. 

“We’re not just sick,” Sabri says. “We’re abandoned.”

For other patients, the impossibility of accessing food and medicine yields different effects. Bushra, 58, says her weight has been oscillating wildly due to untreated thyroid disease.

“I find it incredibly hard to get out of bed or even carry out the simplest daily tasks,” she said. “I can’t keep up with my work or manage my household duties properly.”

Exhaustion clings to her relentlessly, she told The Intercept, and she experiences severe irritability. Since the war started, even when medication is available, its cost far exceeds what she can afford.

“I have to travel long distances to reach a medical center,” Bushra says, “where they give me only half a strip of medication. That barely lasts two weeks, so I must make the exhausting journey again. The roads are rough, the heat is unbearable, and the entire process drains my energy.”

The hardship doesn’t end there. “There is so much suffering, and the lack of proper food makes things worse,” she adds. “Thyroid patients need special nutrition — fish and eggs are vital to compensate for deficiencies in the body. But here, almost all we have access to are canned and preserved foods that don’t meet those needs.”

In just two months, Bushra lost 33 pounds. “Displacement, hunger, and constant suffering have taken a heavy toll on my body. Every day I feel weaker, and my hope for recovery slowly fades under the weight of this relentless hardship.”

Under the blockade, once treatable skin conditions are now dangerous. Rania, 49, is living with eczema, a condition that shifts with the seasons. In winter, certain symptoms flare up; in summer, others emerge. Her skin reddens, itches, and sometimes even peels and cracks. Bacterial contamination in the environment can cause her skin to ooze fluids, forcing her to maintain strict hygiene constantly.

“I need specific medications like allergen blockers, antihistamines, Dermovate, and moisturizing or medicated creams,” Rania says, “along with nutritional supplements such as vitamin D.”

But obtaining these medications has become a struggle. “It’s incredibly hard to find what I need and keep up the hygiene my condition requires,” she explained, “especially since eczema demands special shampoos and soaps that won’t aggravate the skin.”

The harsh sun, heat, polluted air, and blowing sand force Rania to wear full-body clothing to shield her skin from direct contact and infection. But this protective layer bring their own problems, trapping heat and moisture against her skin and worsening her eczema. “I have no choice,” she said. “I must do this.”

Hiba Ahmad Baraka, 37, lives in Deir al-Balah’s al-Hakar neighborhood, once vibrant, now nearly empty. Since 2016, she has struggled with atrial fibrillation, a condition causing an irregular heartbeat.

Before the war, she went to the hospital when her heart raced. She received intravenous medication and close monitoring. The treatment worked.

Now, none of that care exists. “There’s no ICU. No emergency unit. No full dose of anything,” Hiba said.

She is prescribed bisoprolol and diltiazem to stabilize her heart rhythm, but now she gets only half the dose — if she’s lucky. “I break the pills and save them for the worst days,” she explained. “When the flutter starts, I take more from the half-dose, trying to stop it.”

Lately, hunger has made everything worse. Food is scarce, aid trucks are rare, and markets are empty. She eats once a day — if at all.

“When I don’t eat enough, my heart acts up more,” she said. “Even when I take the pill, my body doesn’t respond the same. I get dizzy. I feel like I’m fading.”

Malnutrition weakens her body’s ability to absorb medicine. Dehydration and exhaustion trigger more episodes. She must ration what little food, medicine, and strength she has left.

For Hiba, disability is a daily fight for breath, a steady heartbeat, and a bite of food to survive another day.

“I fight every day — not just the illness, but hunger, heat, and silence,” she says. “Without food, my body breaks faster. Without care, I’m left alone with this war inside me.”