Israel’s Rockets Make the Joy of Eid Impossible in Gaza for a Second Year

In Islamic culture, Eid al-Adha carries deep meanings of compassion and solidarity. This celebration, which begins this year on June 6 and lasts four days, commemorates Prophet Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son Ismail in obedience to a divine vision, before God intervened and provided a ram instead. When we distribute the meat of the sacrificed animals, a share must go to the poor and the needy. We also share with neighbors and friends. Relatives visit one another, give Eidiyah (a small amount of money gifted to children), and exchange greetings: “Eid Mubarak” (“Blessed Eid”), may you live to see many more.

Just two years ago, Gaza’s streets during Eid al-Adha were vibrant until midnight. The markets overflowed with people, the sound of car horns filled the roads, and the scent of ka’ak and ma’amoul wafted from the homes. (Ka’ak is a type of cookie popular in Palestinian cuisine. It’s flavored with nigella seeds and sesame, made from flour and semolina, and often filled with dates. Ma’amoul comes in mold-shaped forms and is typically filled with either dates or nuts.)

Children’s joy spilled into the streets ahead of them as they ran around the Eid sheep, admired the decorations, and sang Eid songs. On every screen, all eyes turned to Mecca to follow the pilgrims. On Eid morning, the mosques would echo with the melodic takbeerat, glorifying God and thanking Him for His blessings.

But this year, Eid didn’t come to us. For the second year in a row, Eid has not visited Gaza. Today, we feel none of those rituals. Gaza has lost its color, cloaked now in a gray layer of rubble. Homes that once hosted family feasts are piles of debris. Streets once bursting with life are now pathways for Israeli tanks.

Two years ago, our entire family celebrated Eid together. Today, the number of us has dwindled. Entire families have been erased from civil records by Israeli airstrikes. Loved ones are scattered — some martyred, some fled when the Rafah crossing was still open, and others wake each morning to fight their daily battle for survival. Residential neighborhoods have lost their faces. Our memories are buried beneath the ruins.

And the children — no one misses Eid more than they do. Eid, in essence, is built on their laughter, new clothes, the joy of receiving Eidiyah, and the thrill of seeing the sacrificial sheep. But many have forgotten what Eid looks like, and some never knew it at all. No sweets, no lights, no joy.

My 10-year-old sister, Jood, once counted the days until Eid with excitement. She would go to the market to pick out a brightly colored new dress, the latest accessories, a small handbag to collect her Eidiyah. The first day of Eid was always spent visiting my grandparents, aunts, and playing with her friends in their fancy dresses.

Today, that joy has faded from her eyes. Jood recently told me, “My real Eid will be when this war ends.” She had hoped the war might stop before Eid. In her childlike logic, she thought maybe Israel had some shred of humanity — enough to stop the killing during the holiday. After all, it never made sense for children to die on Eid.

Even our parents, who once tried to create modest moments of happiness, can no longer manage. The siege, starvation, and economic collapse have made it impossible to afford even the simplest ingredients for joy. Soaring prices stand between parents and their children’s happiness — and between them and even one moment of celebration.

Even ka’ak ingredients are missing. If you find one item, the others are gone. This cookie — once baked in nearly every home in Gaza during Eid — has now become out of reach. If a biscuit is this difficult, what about the Eid sheep?

This year, the price of an Eid sheep in Gaza has reached $4,000 in cash. If someone sends the money from abroad, there’s a 35 percent commission — an extra $1,400. That’s $5,400 total, for a frail, starving sheep. A number that makes no sense in any reality. Even the simplest alternatives, like canned luncheon meat (which could never compare to lamb), have vanished — or skyrocketed in price. All of this leaves parents burdened with guilt, unable to bring joy to their children. It adds another layer of pain on top of war and suffering.

And deprivation isn’t limited to food. We, Muslims in Gaza, have been denied, for the second year in a row, the right to perform Hajj, an annual Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca and one of the Five Pillars of Islam that every Muslim must perform at least once if able. Everyone has the chance to circumambulate the Kaaba — except us. Israel closed the Rafah border crossing almost a year ago, then destroyed it completely to eliminate any chance of escape. The siege is now by land, sea, and air. The door to pilgrimage — one of Islam’s holiest pillars — has been sealed.

Even on Eid, Israel does not pause the killing. Instead of children wearing new clothes and pilgrims wearing their white ihram, they are wrapped in white burial shrouds.

Israel has transformed Gaza from a joyful, festive society into an isolated shadow — watching others celebrate Eid from afar on their phone screens.

How many more Eids will pass with Palestinians only watching from a distance and not participating? How many children will grow up never knowing the beauty of our traditions? What is Eid without solidarity and a shared sense of humanity?

How did Eid in Gaza go from sweets and toys to tents, canned food, and rockets?

In Gaza, Eid is no longer something we await. It has become a luxury we dream of, a memory we carry, or a postponed date we’re not sure we’ll live to see.

We used to say, “Eid Mubarak” — “wishing you well every year.”

Now, we whisper instead, “May we stay alive … clinging to the sweet memories that war could not destroy.”

And maybe someday, when the world decides enough is enough, when the war ends, when Jood smiles again from the heart, we’ll know that Eid has finally returned.