"Sometimes, for a day or two we don't even have bread, nor flour to make bread. There's a store nearby that, when we are truly desperate, lets us take a bag of bread or something simple, on credit. I owe them a lot of money for the food I've brought from them, but I still can't pay them."
"We haven't had a single visit yet through Ramadan, what kind of zoo doesn't get visitors during holidays?" asks Mahmoud Barghoud, 22, co-creator of the Marha zoo.
With power cuts up to 16 hours to full days, a soaring heat wave and unbearable humidity, the Israeli-led siege on Gaza is but one of many factors leaving Ramadan miserable for the majority of Palestinians in Gaza.
In a bright and spacious classroom, with plants overflowing in the courtyard outside, six students lean forward at their desks looking at the 10-digit addition they are asked to make. One student stands before the numbers on the chalkboard and a red and yellow-beaded abacus. But her attention is on the abacus she visualises in her mind.
"It's been days without electricity and water. We can't do anything, and it's unbearably hot now." Abu Fouad, 83, speaks of the power cuts plaguing all of the Gaza Strip.
Outside the battered Civil Defence station in northern Gaza's Jabalia region, Mohammed Zidan, a seven-year veteran of fire-fighting and rescue services, stands on crutches in front of battered Civil Defence vehicles.
Sa'id Hillis, 60, has kept bees since he was a boy. Until the Israeli attacks changed his business.
At precisely 12 noon on a Thursday afternoon, among the rolling sandy hills in southern Gaza, a controlled explosion destroys another round of white phosphorous shells left in Gaza following the 2008-2009 Israeli war on Gaza.
Life can be hard working in these tunnels, and it is always at risk. But many have no choice but to work in them, particularly since mid-2007, when Israel and Egypt, with the help of the international community, imposed a siege of staggering severity on the 1.5 million humans in the Gaza Strip.
This is the month for Palestinians to remember their Nakba, or "catastrophe", in which more than 700,000 women, men and children were pushed off their land and rendered homeless refugees by the Zionist attacks before, during and after the founding of Israel in 1948.
"I've learned most of what I know about photo editing and graphic design via the Internet," says Emad, 27-year-old film-maker and editor. In Gaza, this sort of thing has become usual in a different way.
"Why are you rushing? Isn't it nicer like this?" Mohammed Omer, oud teacher (an oud is similar to a lute) at the Gaza Music School, asks his student. Omer takes the oud and demonstrates, playing the song slowly, gracefully, with the ornamentations that are key to Arab music.
Nine-year-old Ismail spends every afternoon herding his family's flock of sheep and goats, a scraggly group of roughly 20 animals. They live in a shanty house district near Tel el Howa in Gaza City, where growth is sparse to non-existent.
They come by the hundreds every day to sand dunes and rubble sites to sift for pebbles, stones and sand that can be used in making concrete blocks. They lean into trash bins across the Strip, and wade through piles of rubbish scavenging for plastics, metals, and any bits worth reselling.
"If we had money we'd get married right away," says Samir*, 23. He has found his bride, but not the money to hold the wedding.
For many survivors of the last Israeli war on Gaza, time has not healed their wounds, physical or emotional.
On a quiet October morning, Fida Zaneen, 19, sings a traditional love song as she pulls olives from trees in Beit Hanoun's border region during the annual olive harvest.
On a searing summer morning, workers are adding layers to the mud-brick police station being constructed in Sheikh Zayed, northern Gaza.
There are few parks and green spaces in Gaza, and those that exist are crowded with people hungry for nature. Day and night, people of all ages flock to the Joondi, or the park of the Unknown Soldier, in central Gaza City.
In a backstreet open-air café in Gaza late at night, Khaled Harara from the Black Unit Band starts to talk about rap.
Until Monday, Omar and Khaled Al-Habil were the owners of a 20m fishing trawler staffed by five or six fishermen at a time, but employing around 18 in cycles. But that morning the vessel came under heavy Israeli navy machine-gun fire, and then shelling. The trawler caught fire.