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ramadan
This Ramadan, We Are Fasting From Everything in Gaza
I desperately waited for Ramadan in the hope that this sacred month would be different from its predecessors; however, the violence and brutality of the situation have not ceased or lessened with the arrival of Ramadan.
Mar 26, 2024
For the 2.2 million Muslims in Gaza, Ramadan has historically been a time of joyous social gatherings, spiritual reflection, faith renewal, and cherished family reunions.
However, over the past decade, recurring Israeli wars on the strip have cast a dark shadow over this once-vibrant tradition. The ongoing genocidal assault, which has claimed more than 32,000 Palestinian lives and has laid waste to Gaza, made this a most devastating month.
Even when I encounter passersby on the street, I am unable to politely wish them, "Ramadan Kareem."
The once-colorful lights and lanterns that used to adorn the roads have been replaced by the harsh flashes of bombs and utter destruction.
Such greetings feel inappropriate and almost shameful, as all the jubilant celebrations of Ramadan have been replaced by quiet mourning—punctuated only by the echoes of war, grief, and hardship.
Last year, I was delighted to secure a job with a decent salary for the first time in my career. Filled with a sense of abundance, I surprised each of my 22 nieces and nephews with a colourful lantern, or "fanoos," to usher in the holy month.
Their happiness was infectious, and I vowed to make this gift a yearly ritual. Little did I know that circumstances beyond my control would brutally crush this promise of joy.
Today, the reality of life in Gaza has drastically changed. Many of my nieces and nephews find themselves living in tents, facing hunger, and displaced by the ravages of war. Others have left Gaza entirely, seeking refuge elsewhere.
Reduced to Ruins
Under "normal" conditions—as normal as they could be during a blockade—the weeks leading up to Ramadan are filled with anticipation and preparation.
The streets of Gaza would come alive as households and businesses adorned their balconies and storefronts with lanterns to welcome the holy month. I remember my sisters-in-law helping me decorate the balcony of our home with these small lanterns.
This cherished tradition, led by young mothers and enthusiastic youth, created a vibrant atmosphere throughout the neighbourhoods. The sight of Gaza's illuminated streets, powered by generators, solar panels, or even sporadic electricity, would fill my heart with joy.
But this year, Ramadan is a sad month.
While most people fasting around the world may experience headaches and fatigue from the lack of food and caffeine, this year we did not feel the exhaustion from that first day of Ramadan since we have already been enduring food deprivation and a lack of basic necessities for months.
The vibrant nighttime streets of Gaza have fallen into sombre silence. Where there was once life, there is now rubble. The joyous sounds of children playing have been replaced by the heart-wrenching cries of those trapped beneath it.
On the first day of Ramadan, I ventured through the streets in search of some semblance of the past. The scant hope I had instead became a painful realization of just how much we have lost.
Only a few stalls remained in what used to be lively outdoor markets—offering meager quantities of lemons, eggplants, tomatoes, and homemade laundry soap. The faces I encountered were filled with grief and despair. At that moment, I couldn't help but weep for the loss of those cherished memories.
The once-colorful lights and lanterns that used to adorn the roads have been replaced by the harsh flashes of bombs and utter destruction.
Mosques, once crowded with worshippers, either stand empty or lie in ruins. Imams now appeal to individuals to worship within the confines of their own homes or makeshift tents.
And yet the devastation extends beyond the visual landscape.
The atmosphere of Ramadan nights, filled with Tarawih prayers in mosques and Quranic recitation, has been replaced by the sounds of explosions from Israeli bombs.
The aromas that permeated Gaza's streets and shops are now distant memories. The bustling markets, like al-Zawya, Gaza's oldest market, were stocked with buckets of sour pickles and olives, cartons of various dates, pyramids of spices, dried fruits, jams, and other colourful food items.
Everything has been reduced to ruins.
'Even in Ramadan'
When I was young, I used to navigate the narrow and cramped alleys of the Deir al-Balah refugee camp on my walk home from school.
The air was filled with the sounds of women cooking, accompanied by the clattering of spoons and cooking utensils. Each house emitted a distinct aroma unique to the meals being prepared inside.
My dear friend, Hamda, who recently was tragically killed in an air strike on her home along with her husband, could identify dishes based on the fragrance that each home was emitting during the preparations, as we walked together toward our homes. I cherished the hour leading up to sunset and the Maghrib prayer.
The spirit of Ramadan in Gaza has been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self. Sprawling banquets and gatherings have given way to canned meals.
When the first day of Ramadan would come, many of us never had to think of what to cook for iftar, as the answer was evident: molokhia. This thick and flavorful stew, made from the leaves of the jute mallow plant, had always served as the traditional "opener" for Ramadan meals in Gaza. Like other Palestinian mothers and grandmothers, my mother believed that the vibrant green colour of molokhia instilled optimism and brought good fortune during the month.
This year is different. We no longer have the luxury of choice when it comes to our meals. Instead, we rely on a few cans of food received in aid parcels.
While most people fasting around the world may experience headaches and fatigue from the lack of food and caffeine, this year we did not feel the exhaustion from that first day of Ramadan since we have already been enduring food deprivation and a lack of basic necessities for months.
Today, people in Gaza fast through iftar not out of choice, but because they lack food and water.
My brother, who works at a hospital, remarked: "We have been fasting for five months, so I do not know if we will get a headache on the first day." We did not.
Our first suhour was accompanied by Israeli air strikes and artillery shelling in Deir al-Balah. My mother sighed: "Even in Ramadan."
We used to treat ourselves to qatayef, a beloved dessert popular in Ramadan that is no longer available. One kilogram of sugar, which used to cost only 8 NIS ($2), is now a staggering 85 NIS ($23).
The spirit of Ramadan in Gaza has been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self. Sprawling banquets and gatherings have given way to canned meals.
Families no longer gather in celebration but in mourning.
The destruction of homes, markets, schools, the loss of loved ones, and the disruption of daily life have left us grappling with unimaginable pain and loss.
For more than five months, Gaza has endured massacres, disease, starvation, displacement, expulsion, and thirst. I desperately waited for Ramadan in the hope that this sacred month would be different from its predecessors. However, the violence and brutality of the situation have not ceased or lessened with the arrival of Ramadan.
We used to recite a prayer in which we would ask God for Ramadan to arrive without losing any of our loved ones.
However, this Ramadan, we have lost many, many friends, family members, and relatives. We lost homes. We lost our lives. We lost memories. We have lost everything.
This month, we are fasting from everything, whether it is food, talking, smiling, or spiritual experiences. Only grief and despair are in abundance.
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In Baghdad, Organized Destruction
Two days ago an email came from an Iraqi doctor in Baghdad in response to a brief greeting I sent for the month of Ramadan.
"Thanks so much for remembering us...In fact we are the same if not worse. Our hearts are broken at the organized ruining of our country. We are targeted by those criminals and gangs coming from everywhere, even from the west who are all witnessing this drama and, if not supporting it, are keeping silent. We wonder what sin we committed to face this gloomy black fate. In fact, what is going on is beyond words. "
Jun 27, 2015
Two days ago, an Iraqi doctor in Baghdad emailed me in response to a brief greeting I sent for the month of Ramadan.
"Thanks so much for remembering us...In fact, we are the same, if not worse. Our hearts are broken at the organized ruining of our country. We are targeted by criminals and gangs coming from everywhere, even from the West, who are all witnessing this drama and, if not supporting it, are keeping silent. We wonder what sin we committed to face this gloomy black fate. In fact, what is going on is beyond words. "
This courageous woman doctor never left the side of gravely ill children despite the great exodus of doctors due to kidnappings, assassinations, and threats to their lives and families. Sadly, she reports that another of her siblings has cancer, and she needs to leave the medical students for some days. This happens, she says regretfully, in "the critical time of final exams." She is a cancer survivor, and both her mother and sister had cancer. They have no choice, she says, but to go on and try to survive.
Another long-time friend works in southern Iraq in a job that will soon end. He is away from his family in Baghdad, and it is dangerous for him in the south, but he has no choice with a wife and seven children to support. There was already an assassination attempt on his life in Baghdad, and houses near their own have been bombed. There are nightly explosions and gunfire, assassinations and kidnappings. Approximately 200 people across Iraq have been killed each day in this month alone.
We have been frantically trying to find a safe place for him and his family to escape. If they could go to Kurdistan, they would join the ranks of the already three million IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons) within Iraq. If they could get to Turkey, they might eventually get refugee status. But it is expensive there, they don't speak the language, they are not allowed to work, and resettlement could take years.
Our friend emailed that his wife decided to send their second oldest son, 16 years old, to her mother's house due to kidnapping cases. "Two kids were kidnapped two days ago." Ali, I will call the son, has exams and his grandmother's house is closer to the school. When I stayed with this family for two weeks in 2013, one of Ali's twelve-year-old friends was kidnapped and was never found.
The grandmother takes her grandson to school daily and sits against a wall under its shadow until Ali finishes his exam. She is "old and weak," Ali's father writes, "and honestly, it is meaningless to think she could protect Ali as she can't protect herself. But I do appreciate her efforts." Ali told his dad that his grandmother was causing him "too much embarrassment as she doesn't understand the rules of the exams." She always tries to enter the exam class to give Ali cold water because it is scalding. On the first day, the exam director allowed her to do this, but she tried again on another day during the exam. This time, it was not to give him water. She had cooked a rooster and told the staff that he had to eat well to do well on the exam! Ali was slightly angry, but his love for her "let him forget the embarrassing feeling!" He is "crazy in love" with his grandmother as she is the only grandparent left.
Ali was complaining to his father about the insufferable heat, lack of air cooling, and terrible mosquitoes. He uses a kerosene lamp for studying at night. The father was trying to encourage him by phone to overcome the difficulties, saying, "No pain, no gain." Ali responded, "Dad since we opened our eyes in this life, we have only known pain."
Just yesterday, two civilians were killed as Ali and his grandmother approached the school. This happened right in front of their eyes. His father emailed: "Ali couldn't answer the exam well as he saw the accident. Let us pray for his safety."
Our friend and his wife worry excessively about their oldest boy, 18 years old, as militia comes to the houses seeking young men to fight ISIS, and they "will take young guys by force to do battle." Although this son is needed to guard the house at night and help his mother, the mother felt compelled to send this son away, too.
My friend concluded: "Cathy, It's hard to sleep. Don't worry. The family is still fine."
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