The recent conflict’s reverberations still echo loudly, casting uncertain shadows over the future. Anxiety about what lies ahead weighs heavily on the minds of Gazans, who fear the possibility of renewed fighting.
The collective memory and the trauma experienced over the past year persistently linger, shadowing our daily lives.
Last year was not the first time we marked Ramadan amidst war. In 2014, at just nine years old, I recall vividly the nights of Ramadan filled with the horrors of air strikes and the chaos of fleeing our home under the cover of darkness.
However, Ramadan of the previous year was an unprecedentedly harrowing experience. Hunger was rampant. We fasted all day only to break our fast with a single can of hummus or beans shared among six hungry persons. In the absence of electricity, we would eat our tasteless canned food in darkness, barely able to see the faces of those with whom we shared the meager meal.
We found ourselves isolated from much of our extended family. My grandmother, aunts, and cousins, with whom I used to celebrate Ramadan, were scattered—some deported to tents, others trapped in the north. The season of togetherness and communion became an era of separation and individuation.
Ramadan was drained of its jubilant spirit. The yearning to hear the maghrib adhan before breaking fast or fajr before commencing it remained unfulfilled. Every mosque had been viciously destroyed. There were those who wished to perform the call to prayer but were paralyzed by fear, dreading that the sound of their voices might attract air strikes, turning them into targets.
Instead of the muezzin’s comforting call, our iftar was marked by the chilling echoes of missiles and gunfire.
In the past, after iftar, my family would join Others at the mosque for prayer and communion. Afterwards, we would leisurely stroll through Gaza’s lively Ramadan-festive streets before heading home to enjoy freshly made qatayef.
But last year, there were no communal spaces to turn to for prayer and reflection, no solace to be drawn from shared religious observances.
Even the revered Great Omari Mosque, where my father and brothers would spend the concluding ten nights of Ramadan immersed in the Quran’s melodious recitation, was annihilated, reduced to unrecognizable ruins. The site once alive with prayer and tranquility lay in ruin, transformed into dust and debris.
This year’s Ramadan finds us in a fragile truce. There are no air strikes to accompany our breaking of the fast, no explosions to disrupt the stillness of fajr. There’s no fear in adorning our homes or hanging illuminations that might invite destruction.
Amid the suffering and devastation, there are tentative signs of life resuming its partial rhythm in Gaza’s devastated streets.
Stores and markets that have escaped destruction are reopened, and street vendors have resumed their calls.
Even the major supermarket in Nuseirat, the Hyper Mall, has flung open its entrance once again. Just before Ramadan, my father took my sister and me there. Our exuberance was palpable as we stepped into the resplendently lit mall. It felt for an instant that we were transported back in time. Shelves were replenished with everything we had been longing for—various chocolates, biscuits, and chips. Ramadan decorations, lanterns of every form and size, boxes of dates, colorful dried fruits, and Qamar al-Din, all gleamed under the lights.
Nevertheless, this apparent abundance is misleading. Much of what graces these shelves arrives on commercial vehicles, which form a large part of the trucks allowed into Gaza at the expense of humanitarian aid. Concurrently, these products have become prohibitively expensive for the majority who have lost their means of income and shelter.
What will constitute the iftar for most families this year? It will be something more substantial than canned beans: a simple repast of rice, molokhia, or whatever vegetables are affordable.
For our first iftar, my family will have musakhan, a Palestinian creation of chicken, saj bread, and plenty of onions. We are aware of our fortune. The vast majority in Gaza cannot afford the fresh chicken that has reappeared at twice the pre-war price in markets.
But a lavish, traditional iftar will not be the only absence from Ramadan tables in Gaza.
More than 48,000 lives were lost during the war. Families have been erased from the civil registry and will sit out this Ramadan. At numerous iftar gatherings, there will be an unoccupied seat: a father whose inviting call to the dinner table will resonate no more, a son whose eagerness to break the fast will be no more, or a mother whose skillful hands will no longer craft tasty dishes.
I, too, have lost beloved ones. My uncle, who would annually invite us for iftar, was murdered. My friends Shaima, Lina, and Roaa, whom I would meet at the mosque after Taraweeh, all became martyrs.
The festive atmosphere has faded, but the essence of Ramadan remains. This month offers a moment of respite from the preoccupations of everyday life, to re-connect with our faith. It is a season of forgiveness, of seeking God’s closeness and spiritual fortitude.
Although our mosques have been destroyed, our faith remains intact. We will continue to observe Taraweeh in half-ruined homes and tents, whispering all our prayers and seeking solace in the recitation of the Quran, confident that Allah will reward us for all the anguish we have borne.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.
