Part of the Series
Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation
During Ramadan, joy usually sweeps through Gaza as the streets come alive with dazzling decorations and the warm glow of radiant lanterns. The alleys resonate with echoes of blessings and celebratory chants while people gather, their hearts brimming with anticipation and happiness. Children embrace the holy month with pure innocence and delight, carrying the hope of reunion and the spirit of unity that these sacred days nurture.
Ramadan is not just a time of togetherness; it is a moment when family and friends are bound together around the iftar table, sharing not only meals but souls — celebrating joy, reinforcing love and fortifying the bonds that tie us all in a deep, unspoken affection. It is a month that brings us closer, fills us with gratitude, and reminds us of the power of community and love in the face of everything.
But what did the reunion of loved ones look like in the Ramadan we spent in the shadow of war? And what will it be in the Ramadan that comes after the ceasefire?
During Ramadan, a peaceful stillness usually settles over Gaza until the call to Maghrib prayer signals it is time for iftar: our fast-breaking evening meal. Families gather around tables filled with traditional Palestinian dishes — on the first day, we feast on maqluba (an overturned pot of rice and vegetables with tender meat) and a side of molokhia (a dish made with green jute leaves, chicken stock and lemon juice). Throughout the month, meals are hearty yet balanced, nourishing both body and soul. After iftar, we all head to the mosques for prayer and supplication, while children fill the streets with laughter. Then come the long-awaited visits — loved ones reuniting, sharing stories and embracing the joy that Ramadan brings into our lives.
But how different was the Ramadan I spent in war-torn northern Gaza in 2024, where famine spread in the midst of genocide! It was among the hardest days of the war — 30 days of not just bombings, killings and destruction, but also starvation that drained our bodies and spirits. For 20 days of Ramadan, we were besieged, trapped in our home, while an Israeli tank loomed in the street where we sought refuge. The danger was relentless, and I often asked myself: Will I survive this?
I could hear the mothers screaming for their children under the siege, their voices filled with desperation. The children bled to death, with no help in sight. No ambulances, no hope. Many who tried to reach the besieged areas were shot down by the Israeli military without hesitation. The walls echoed with the cries of agony, and those sounds reverberated in my ears, a haunting silence that felt as suffocating as death itself!
With every call to prayer, the earth shook under the force of relentless airstrikes. One evening, just as people sat down to break their fast, a seven-story building was bombed to the ground — crushing its residents beneath the rubble. Loved ones were not just dying from airstrikes; they were also dying from hunger. There was no food. For 30 days, we broke our fast with nothing but plain rice — every single night. Ramadan, once a month of abundance, became a month of survival.

One day, as the bombing raged on, my mother prepared a simple meal of rice for us. Suddenly, an explosion tore through the air, leaving my ears ringing. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the house filled with thick, suffocating dust, carrying the sharp scent of gunpowder. I turned to see the devastation — a tank shell had ripped through our home.
Some families have been left with just one survivor. How will such a person live alone, feeling the crushing emptiness, especially during Ramadan?
This was Ramadan in wartime — a month defined not by prayers and shared meals, but by death, gunfire and destruction. My heart broke as I heard of entire families bombed while gathered for iftar. Yet, despite the overwhelming grief, I had already come to accept that death could come at any moment.
How strange it was — just a year before, Ramadan was filled with laughter, the warmth of shared meals, the comfort of loved ones. But Israel’s war on Gaza brought hunger and death last Ramadan, striking one after the other. Once, we met our loved ones around the iftar table — but due to Israel’s attacks, we saw many of our loved ones torn to pieces by airstrikes during the sacred time in which we used to gather.
Ramadan last year ended in tragedy and unbearable pain. I had held onto the hope, the belief, that the coming Ramadan, which starts today, would be different — lighter, and perhaps marked by a ceasefire.
We do have a ceasefire, but has life returned to what it was before? Sadly, I never imagined that the next Ramadan would bring even more suffering. This week I walked through the streets of Gaza, which should have been adorned in preparation for the holy month. Instead, I found myself staring at shattered streets and the mosques where we once gathered for prayers — now reduced to ruins. The faces of the people were hollow, their spirits dimmed. The streets, once bright with lights, are now consumed by the shadow of destruction. I wonder: What will the coming Ramadan be like, when so many loved ones are no longer with us? How will Ramadan be without the homes we once decorated?

A few days ago, I met my cousin’s daughter, who lost her father to a heart attack — his heart could no longer bear the pain and despair after losing his mother in the famine, his home and everything he owned. He died from the grief caused by this war. She asked me, “How will Ramadan come without my father?”
She had grown so used to his presence and his prayers for her. And her 6-year-old son asked me, with innocent eyes, “Will my prayers reach my father in heaven?” He will remember his mother preparing the food, and his father’s beautiful voice during prayer.
How painful it is to hear such stories, and there are so many like them. This is a war of annihilation, one that has wiped out entire families, erasing them from the civil registry, like the Saqallah family, which lost 21 members. Some families have been left with just one survivor. How will such a person live alone, feeling the crushing emptiness, especially during Ramadan? As this month approaches, I’ve realized that the pain hasn’t eased, despite the ceasefire. In fact, we will feel it even more acutely than before.
Some families have yet to find the bodies of their murdered family members. Many are still searching under the rubble, hoping to recover their loved ones. Ramadan has begun, and they will continue their search to bring them home for a proper burial. I can only imagine how we will feel on the first day of Ramadan, in a city suffocated by dust, ruins and the stench of death. As I walk through the streets, I see graves where once there were decorations. Today, with every step I take, I walk past another grave.
Ramadan, once a sacred time for reuniting with cherished loved ones, has now become a solemn season of prayer — praying for their reunion in paradise, where no sorrow, no war, no distance can ever tear us apart again. This year, the iftar table will remain empty of many who once filled it with laughter and love. Instead, we’ll gather in spirit, holding onto the hope that in the afterlife, the embrace of those we lost will be eternal, unbroken by the cruelty of this world.
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