Ramadan in Gaza: Amid Ruins, Unwavering Faith Persists | Israel-Palestine Conflict

Ramadan has arrived in devastated Gaza. While the rest of the world embraces this month of fasting and prayer with a festive spirit, we do so with grief and sorrow.

The echoes of war still linger. There is no certainty that this ceasefire will hold. People are anxious about what lies ahead, fearing that the war may return.

The memories and trauma of what we’ve witnessed and endured over the past year weigh heavily on our minds.

This is not the first time we’ve observed Ramadan during war. In 2014, I was only nine years old, but I vividly remember how our Ramadan nights were filled with airstrikes and destruction, forcing us to flee our home in the dark to escape the bombings in our neighborhood.

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

We were separated from most of our extended family. My grandmother, aunts, and cousins, whom I used to spend Ramadan with, were scattered in different places—some displaced in tents, others trapped in the north. The month of togetherness became a month of separation and isolation.

Ramadan lost its joyous essence. We longed to hear the adhan (call to prayer) at Maghrib to break our fast or at Fajr to begin it, but those sounds never came. Every mosque was destroyed. Some wanted to perform the adhan but were too afraid—afraid that their voices would attract airstrikes and make them targets.

Instead of breaking our fast to the familiar sound of the muezzin from the nearby mosque, we broke it to the terrifying echoes of missiles and gunfire.

Before the war, I used to go with my family to the mosque after iftar to pray and see loved ones. We’d stroll through the streets of Gaza, soaking in the lively Ramadan atmosphere, before returning home to enjoy freshly made qatayef.

But last year, there was nowhere to pray tarawih amid the genocide.

Even the Great Omari Mosque—one of Gaza’s most beautiful and historic mosques, where my father and brothers used to spend the final 10 nights of Ramadan, listening to the Quran recited in the most beautiful voices—was gone, reduced to rubble, shattered beyond recognition. The place that once echoed with prayers and peace was turned to dust and ruins.

This year’s Ramadan begins during a ceasefire. There are no airstrikes shaking the earth as we break our fast, no explosions reverberating in the silence of Fajr, no fear of decorating our homes or hanging colorful lights that might make us targets.

Amid the pain and devastation, life—paused for so long—is slowly returning to Gaza’s streets.

Shops and markets that survived have reopened, and street vendors are back.

Even the large supermarket in Nuseirat, Hyper Mall, has reopened its doors. Before Ramadan, my father took my sister and me there. We could barely contain our excitement stepping into the brightly lit mall. For a moment, it felt like we had gone back in time. The shelves were restocked with everything we had longed for—chocolates, biscuits, chips, Ramadan decorations, lanterns of all shapes and sizes, boxes of dates, colorful dried fruits, and Qamar al-Din.

But this abundance is deceptive. Much of what fills the shelves comes on commercial trucks, which make up a large portion of the supplies allowed into Gaza at the expense of humanitarian aid. At the same time, these products have become unaffordable for most people who have lost their livelihoods and homes.

So, what will most families break their fast with this year? It will be slightly more than canned beans: a simple meal of rice, molokhia, or whatever vegetables they can afford.

For the first iftar, my family will have musakhan, a Palestinian dish made with chicken, saj bread, and lots of onions. We know we are among the fortunate. The vast majority in Gaza cannot afford the fresh chicken that has reappeared in markets at double the pre-war price.

But a traditional, lavish iftar is not the only thing missing from Ramadan tables in Gaza.

More than 48,000 people have been killed during the war. Entire families have been wiped from the civil registry and will not observe Ramadan this year. At so many iftar tables, there will be empty seats: a father whose voice calling his children to the table will never be heard again, a son whose impatience to break his fast will never be seen again, or a mother whose skilled hands will never prepare delicious food again.

I, too, have lost loved ones. My aunt’s husband, who used to invite us for iftar every year, was brutally killed. My friends Shaima, Lina, and Roaa, whom I used to meet at the mosque after tarawih prayers, were all martyred.

The festive spirit is gone, but the essence of Ramadan remains. This month is an opportunity to step away from the distractions and concerns of daily life and reconnect with our faith. It is a time of forgiveness, a time to seek closeness to God and spiritual resilience.

Our mosques may have been destroyed, but our faith has not been broken. We will still perform tarawih in half-destroyed homes and tents, whispering our wishes in dua’a and finding comfort in reciting the Quran, knowing that Allah will reward us for the suffering we have endured.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.