Eid al-Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan, was once eagerly awaited in Gaza, a rare occasion that brought a sense of joy and normalcy. Its preparations began days in advance — homes were cleaned, a fresh touch of decoration was added and families made sure everything was in place for the celebration. Parents saved up to buy new clothes for their children, knowing how much it meant to them to dress well on Eid.
The streets stayed lively late into the night, filled with people shopping for last-minute essentials. Bakeries worked tirelessly, filling the air with the scent of ka’ak, the traditional date-stuffed cookies, alongside trays of chocolate and vanilla biscuits — simple treats that would soon be shared over coffee with guests. Shops displayed an array of high-quality chocolates, candies, halkom (Turkish delight) and roasted nuts, small luxuries that made Eid feel complete.
On the first morning of Eid, we would wake up early, dress in our best clothes and make our way to the mosque for the Eid prayer. There, we exchanged greetings, smiles and handshakes, a heartfelt tradition that carried deep meaning, reminding us that Eid is about togetherness. The takbirat, the chants of “Allahu Akbar” recited on Eid, filled the air, creating a familiar rhythm that made the day feel different, wrapped in a quiet sense of spiritual peace.
After the Eid prayer, we would head home to prepare breakfast. Breakfast was always special, made exclusively for Eid al-Fitr. It included fesikh — a fermented, salted and dried fish with a bold, briny flavor — along with salad dressed in tahini sauce and tomatoes fried in olive oil.
People in Gaza eagerly awaited Eid al-Fitr, especially for this breakfast, rich with diverse flavors. What made this breakfast even more special was the gathering of families around the table, where we would laugh, share stories and savor every bite together.
Then came the time to select and dress in special clothes for Eid, preparing to welcome arriving guests, including relatives and friends who came to share in this joyful occasion. Children loved this part the most — you could see little girls in colorful dresses, their hair adorned with bright accessories, and boys in suits and ties, applying perfume. Their new outfits brought an extra spark of happiness to their faces as they eagerly headed out with their Eidiyah (gift money) to buy delicious snacks and toys from the market.
Despite the strict siege imposed on Gaza for over 15 years, we continued to find simple ways to enjoy such a special occasion. However, the Israeli occupation had made even the slightest attempt to create a fleeting sense of happiness in Gaza a luxury we can no longer afford. Last Eid came amid war and starvation, stripping us of our cherished Eid traditions. We had no chance to bake ka’ak, savor the taste of chocolate, or prepare the beloved Eid breakfast we once enjoyed along with our loved ones.
Last Eid felt empty, as many had lost their homes and their loved ones — the very ones who made Eid meaningful. Personally, I lost my mother due to the Israeli military invasion of Al-Zaitoun neighborhood, and my grandmother to starvation and the lack of medical care.
I still remember how my family and I were forced to evacuate under heavy bombardment just a few days before Eid al-Fitr, ending up in a UN school-turned-shelter for displaced families. We carried deep sadness and despair in our hearts, reminiscing about the beauty of Eid in times of peace, when we were surrounded by our loved ones.
Children didn’t wear new, elegant clothes for Eid, nor did they enjoy buying toys and sweets. In fact, some were terrified of going out because of the Israeli bombardment, while others were busy filling their water gallons, or getting food from charity kitchens.
My 7-year-old cousin, Haneen, cried a lot as the Israeli forces burned all her colorful, puffy dresses — the ones she loved to wear on Eid — during a military operation in Al-Zaitoun neighborhood.
“I don’t have any beautiful clothes for Eid. I don’t love Eid anymore,” she said.
Last Eid lost its joy — overshadowed by destruction, heavy bombardment and bloodshed. However, with the ceasefire taking effect in January 2025, people in Gaza clung to the hope that the war would not return. They held onto the belief that the ceasefire would last, offering them a chance to revive some of the Eid pleasures they had been deprived of for so long. Some even began planning for things they hoped to do this Eid.
Personally, I bought a new set of colorful dishes, planning to serve ka’ak and chocolate for guests. I even dared to buy a new carpet and bright ornaments and vases to decorate our small apartment for Eid. My 13-year-old brother Osama was so excited for this Eid, and he made so many plans, including buying new clothes and perfume, and going out to see his friends, whom he missed a lot. My father even planned to invite my uncles and aunt to eat fesikh together on the first day of Eid.
However, our simple plans to live in peace and revive some of the Eid traditions we love were shattered by unannounced heavy bombardment on March 18. The ceasefire, which had given us a fleeting chance to dream and plan amid the pain and suffering, has ended, and the war has returned. The people in Gaza are now living in a state of shock and fear.
We have had enough of wars. Even now, it is hard to believe that this Eid — the one we clung to, eagerly awaited and planned for — will be just like the previous one. Most people have forgotten their Eid plans, consumed by worry about what they will do if they are forced to evacuate to the south again, how they will survive if their stored food runs out, and what will happen if the blockade that prevents humanitarian aid from entering the Strip continues. The thought of reliving the horrors of the past 15 months erases their excitement for this Eid.
This Eid was supposed to be a moment of respite, a chance to reclaim even the smallest fragments of happiness. Instead, it has become another day of mourning, another reminder that in Gaza, not even our dreams are safe.
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