Ramadan in Gaza: Ruins and unshakable faith

Ramadan descends upon a devastated Gaza. While the rest of the world welcomes this month of fasting and prayer with joy, we greet it with grief and sorrow.

The echoes of war remain clear. People are uncertain whether this ceasefire will last, filled with anxiety about the future and fearing the resumption of hostilities. The trauma witnessed and experienced over the past year weighs heavily on people's hearts.

Last year was not the first time we spent Ramadan in war. In 2014, I was only nine years old, but I still clearly remember the Ramadan nights filled with airstrikes and destruction, how we frantically fled our home in the dark, seeking shelter from the bombings in neighboring areas.

But last year's Ramadan was completely different, the situation unimaginably worse. Hunger was everywhere. We fasted all day, only to break our fast with a single can of hummus or beans shared among six people. Without electricity, we chewed on tasteless canned food in the dark, barely able to see each other's faces across the table.

We were separated from most of our loved ones. My grandmother, aunts, and cousins, who used to celebrate Ramadan with me, were scattered in different places, some displaced and living in tents, others trapped in the north. This month, which should have been a time of reunion, became a moment of separation and isolation.

Ramadan has lost its original joyous atmosphere. We longed to hear the call to prayer at sunset before breaking the fast or at dawn before beginning the fast, but these sounds never came. Every mosque was destroyed. Some wanted to make the call to prayer, but they were afraid—afraid that their voices would attract airstrikes, making them targets. Instead of the familiar voice of the muezzin from the nearby mosque's loudspeakers, we heard the terrifying echoes of missiles and gunfire.

Before the war, I often went to the mosque with my family after breaking the fast to pray and gather with loved ones. Afterward, we would stroll through the streets of Gaza, enjoying the lively Ramadan atmosphere, before returning home to enjoy freshly made Qatayef sweets. But last year, under the shadow of the massacre, we had nowhere to go for Tarawih prayers.

Even the Great Omari Mosque, one of Gaza's most beautiful and historic mosques, where my father and brothers used to spend the last ten nights of Ramadan, listening to the Quran recited in the most beautiful voices—is no more, bombed into ruins, unrecognizable. This place that once echoed with prayers and peace has become dust and rubble.

This year's Ramadan begins during a ceasefire. As we break our fast, there are no airstrikes shaking the earth, no explosions echoing in the silence of dawn, and no need to fear decorating our homes, hanging colorful lights that might make us targets.

Amid the pain and destruction, life, once stagnant, is trying to return to the streets of Gaza. Shops and markets that have not been destroyed are reopening, and street vendors are returning.

Even the Hyper Mall in Nuseirat has reopened its doors. Before Ramadan, my father took my sister and me there. We could hardly contain our excitement as we walked into the brightly lit mall. At that moment, it felt like we had returned to the past. The shelves were once again filled with all kinds of goods we had longed for—different kinds of chocolates, biscuits, and chips. There were also Ramadan decorations, lanterns of all shapes and sizes, boxes of dates, and brightly colored dried fruits and Qamar al-Din.

But this abundance is deceptive. Most of the goods on the shelves are transported by commercial trucks, which take up most of the trucks allowed into Gaza, sacrificing humanitarian aid. At the same time, these goods have become unaffordable for most people who have lost their livelihoods and homes.

So what will most families use to break their fast this year? A little more than canned beans: a simple meal of rice, jute mallow soup, or whatever vegetables they can afford.

For the first breaking of the fast, my family will enjoy Musakhan, a Palestinian dish made with chicken, saj bread, and lots of onions. We know we are lucky. The vast majority of people in Gaza cannot afford the fresh chicken that has reappeared in the markets at twice the pre-war price.

But a hearty traditional Iftar meal is not the only thing missing from the Ramadan tables in Gaza.

During the war, more than 48,000 people have died. Entire families have been erased from the civil registry and will not be able to celebrate Ramadan this year. At so many Iftar tables, there will be an empty seat: a father whose voice calling his children to eat will never be heard again; a son whose eagerness to break the fast will never be seen again; or a mother whose skillful hands will no longer prepare delicious food.

I have also lost loved ones. My aunt's husband, who used to invite us to Iftar every year, was brutally killed. My friends Shaima, Lina, and Roa, whom I used to meet at the mosque after Tarawih prayers, have all been martyred.

The festive atmosphere has disappeared, but the essence of Ramadan remains. This month is an opportunity to break away from the distractions and worries of daily life and reconnect with our faith. It is a time for forgiveness, a time to seek closeness with God and gain spiritual resilience.

Our mosques may have been destroyed, but our faith has not been destroyed. We will still perform Tarawih prayers in half-destroyed houses and tents, whisper all our wishes in Dua, and seek comfort in reciting the Quran, knowing that Allah will reward us for all the suffering we have endured.