When Hunger Becomes a Weapon-and a Mirror
On Starvation, War, and Why Food Writers Must Speak
By Elli Benaiah
I write about food.
About memory, belonging, the sacredness of flavour, the meaning behind the meal.
Yesterday, I wrote about fasting—about voluntarily stepping into hunger as a form of remembrance.
But what about involuntary hunger?
What happens when there is no food, not because of ritual or restraint, but because it has been bombed, blocked, denied?
Most food writers don’t talk about starvation.
Our job is to celebrate food—not its absence.
We write of slow-simmered curries, fermented pancakes, pickled lemons. Not empty shelves. Not infant formula running out.
But silence, too, is a choice. And I no longer feel comfortable making it.
This Isn’t a Typical Food Essay
As I say, I tested the waters recently with an essay about fasting. It wasn’t a hit.
But this time, I’m not testing. I’m diving in—headfirst into stormy seas.
Because silence, for me, is the greater threat.
And I trust that those of you reading are fair-minded people who can engage this subject in good faith—even if it’s uncomfortable. Perhaps especially because it’s uncomfortable.
As a food writer, my work is usually about joy—about memory, taste, culture, celebration.
But food isn’t just pleasure. It’s politics. It’s ethics. It’s responsibility.
I was also deeply moved by Linda Broenniman’s recent essay, The Cost of Silence: Why We Need to Talk About the Holocaust—written from a different but equally urgent perspective: the importance of teaching children to remember.
Her piece reminded me that silence—even when well-intentioned—can be dangerous.
And that writing—even when it hurts—is a form of resistance.
What I write about—food—is never neutral.
To talk only about spice blends and curries and not about starvation feels dishonest.
To celebrate abundance without acknowledging absence is to participate in a kind of escapism.
I don’t want to be that kind of writer.
Starvation as a Weapon
In the ancient world, siege warfare was common.
If you couldn’t breach your enemy’s walls, you waited. You poisoned wells, burned crops, blockaded trade. You starved your enemy into submission—and waited some more.
The Bible is filled with haunting accounts of such tactics.
In Lamentations—read each year on Tisha b’Av, the day both Temples in Jerusalem were razed—we hear the chilling line:
“Young children ask for bread, and no one breaks it for them.”
The siege of Jerusalem, by Babylon and again by Rome, didn’t just destroy sacred buildings.
It humiliated a people. It drove them into exile.
Starvation wasn’t just physical—it was psychological. It broke morale. It broke identity.
But it was also considered a legitimate tactic of war.
That was then.
The Modern Line: Starvation as a War Crime
After the genocides of the 20th century, international law began drawing firmer lines around how war could be fought—not to end war, but to preserve some shred of human dignity within it.
One such line is clear: the prohibition against starvation of civilians.
According to the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (1998):
“Intentionally using starvation of civilians as a method of warfare” is a war crime.
The Geneva Conventions prohibit acts that deprive civilians of objects “indispensable to their survival.”
Even the U.S. Department of Defense affirms:
“Starvation of civilians as a method of warfare is prohibited.”
And yet—here we are. Again.
Siege in the Age of Asymmetry
What happens when there are no clear battlefields?
When fighters hide among civilians?
When rockets are launched from homes, schools, hospitals?
Modern warfare blurs the lines.
But the moral questions remain painfully sharp.
International law allows attacks on military targets—but demands distinction, proportionality, and precautions to protect civilians.
And yet, siege tactics persist.
And with them, starvation returns—not in some distant past, but in Aleppo. In Mariupol. In Gaza.
When the World Looked Away
Despite the laws, the sieges of Aleppo and Mariupol exposed the world’s selective outrage and paralyzing inaction.
I name these places not to equate them, but to highlight a tragic pattern: starvation, once a relic of ancient warfare, has returned in modern times with calculated brutality.
In Aleppo, Syrian and Russian forces cut off food and medicine with impunity. The UN issued condemnations. Security Council resolutions were vetoed.
In Mariupol, Russia starved civilians and razed the city. The fear of escalation stifled meaningful intervention.
In both cases, starvation wasn’t a side effect.
It was a weapon.
And the world did little more than watch.
Eventually, the man who oversaw Aleppo’s starvation—Bashar al-Assad—was weakened, isolated, and reportedly abdicated, seeking shelter under the protection of Vladimir Putin—whose regime then starved Mariupol.
The hypocrisy is glaring.
When powerful states weaponize hunger, the rules of war become optional.
These are the clear cases.
A Note on Gaza
I will not declare whether starvation in Gaza is intentional or resultative.
I do not have access to classified briefings or the full picture.
I am a news addict—but not an intelligence agency.
What is clear is that Israeli policy has been inconsistent.
Corridors open, then close.
Food is let in, then delayed.
Right now, reports suggest it’s going in.
These shifts—politically or militarily driven—make moral clarity harder to maintain, and easier to manipulate.
What’s also clear: over 50 Israeli hostages remain in captivity.
Many are reportedly held underground.
Some have no sunlight, no medical care—and no food.
Some may be deliberately starved.
This duality—the suffering on both sides—should not paralyze moral thinking.
It should deepen it.
Because starvation, anywhere, is not a strategy.
It’s a wound on our shared humanity.
The Question We Can’t Ignore
Here is the dilemma I keep turning over:
If cutting food aid helps free hostages and weaken a terror group—but starves innocent people—what’s the right move?
There is no clean answer.
And anyone who pretends otherwise may not be carrying the full moral weight.
War is often a choice between evils—not between right and wrong.
And in such moments, even food—our most universal symbol of care—gets weaponized.
We’re left asking:
Is this deliberate starvation, or collateral tragedy?
When civilians cannot—or will not—separate from the armed groups among them, who bears the moral responsibility?
Once again, I offer no final answers—only a plea for honest reckoning.
Because to starve people is to treat them as less than human.
And that is wrong.
No cause, no calculus, no political justification can erase that.
Why I’m Writing This
What makes me a different kind of food writer—for better or worse—is that I didn’t come to this through food alone.
I grew up in Israel.
I’ve lived through wars.
I studied philosophy.
I practiced criminal law for 30 years.
I ran a restaurant.
And I am Jewish.
These layers shape how I see food—not just as flavour or nostalgia, but as memory, migration, and sometimes, moral reckoning.
Most food writers don’t go here.
We stay in the kitchen.
We post beauty.
We write about comfort—not crisis.
But I can’t pretend food is only ever celebration.
If food is culture, then starvation is cultural trauma.
If meals tell stories, then starvation erases them.
And if food is sacred—then so is its denial.
That’s why I believe that I—who write about food—must also write about its absence.
Not to moralize. Not to politicize.
But to hold space—for memory, for mourning, for complexity.
A Note on Simplicity and Silence
As Israeli legal scholar Yuval Elbashan argued in a recent op-ed:
“Not every tragedy in Gaza is a result of intent.”
That distinction matters. But even if not deliberate, starvation is no less devastating. And it is no less urgent.
I wrestled with whether to write this—for fear of being accused of partisanship. Today, being thought partisan is treated as almost criminal by those who hold opposing views.
But silence felt worse.
The temptation to assign simplistic moral accusations—to those who declare intent without evidence—is understandable. But it flattens reality. It replaces thought with slogans, and conscience with certainty.
We need fewer binary narratives—and more courage to wrestle with the in-between.
A Final Bite
We write about food to honour life.
We must write about hunger to protect it.
History is full of sieges. So is scripture.
But conscience—and law—demand better.
Because when the table is empty, the silence speaks volumes.
That, too, is food for thought.
Let’s Talk
Again, I debated whether to publish this.
But silence felt worse.
If you’ve read this far, I thank you.
And I hope you’ll share your thoughts—not to argue sides, but to wrestle with the questions:
What do we do when food becomes a weapon?
How do we write about joy while others go hungry?
Where does conscience begin—and neutrality end?
Comments are open. Let’s not turn away.
Elli Benaiah is a lawyer, culinary historian, and writer based in Munich. He is the creator of Beyond Babylon, a project exploring Jewish food traditions from South and Southeast Asia through the lens of migration, adaptation, and memory.
Well done for speaking out. Whether this hunger is a result of incompetence or a poorly thought out tactic, the starving of civilians and hostages alike is cruel and hardly seems to be achieving the goal of returning hostages and disarming Hamas.
"What do we do when food becomes a weapon?
How do we write about joy while others go hungry?
Where does conscience begin—and neutrality end?"
Such profound questions. I can't begin to answer them, but you have said something just by asking the questions and by not remaining silent. Thanks for that and the rest of this soul-searching piece.