Silence, grief and a prayer for survival: Gaza's Christians hold on to faith as Easter returns under Israeli siege for a second year

In Gaza City’s Tel al-Hawa neighbourhood, Fouad Nabil Ayad stands amid the ruins of what was once his family’s garden, where his father had planted an olive tree almost a decade ago.

He remembers how each year, all the relatives would gather here to celebrate Easter.

“We used to pray, laugh, and share meals by this tree,” the 36-year-old told The New Arab as he pointed toward a blackened stump.

“Our home is now a pile of rubble, and the joy that came with the holiday seems like a distant memory.”

For Fouad and the nearly 700 Christians trapped in the enclave, this Easter marks the second year in a row they observe the holiday under Israel's ongoing siege and genocide in Gaza.

This year, the holidays in Gaza carry no traces of festivity; no hymns echo through the streets, no candles flicker in the windows, and no children are seen happily parading in their new clothes. Instead, the season is marked by silence, grief, and a prayer for survival.

"The memories of past Easters — the laughter, the decorated eggs, and the joyful meals — are now blurred with grief"

In a crowded corner of the St Porphyrius Orthodox Church, where many of Gaza’s Christians took refuge following the first days of the war, Fouad shared what was now home with his wife, young daughter, elderly parents, and his married siblings, three brothers and two sisters, each with children of their own, all carrying the weight of loss and uncertainty together.

“The memories of past Easters — the laughter, the decorated eggs, and the joyful meals — are now blurred with grief,” Fouad said.

“It’s as if the war drowned out every prayer and silenced every fragile moment of peace, extinguishing any flickers of hope that we had.”

This Easter, the Ayads found no candles, hymns, or sweet pastries. There was only a man on his knees in the dust, praying for peace amid the ruins, and a family clinging to life — and to one another.

“This Easter is a prayer, not a celebration, not a song,” Fouad added.

On the run with no escape

Since the onset of Israel's genocide after October 7, many of the enclave’s Christians sought refuge in the enclave’s three main churches: the Church of the Holy Family, Saint Porphyrius, and the Baptist Church.

But even these sanctuaries came under Israeli airstrikes, killing and injuring several displaced civilians. Before October 2023, there were around 1,100 Christians in Gaza, but Israel’s war on the enclave had taken its toll on the already-dwindling population. 

The Ayad family narrowly escaped a bombing that obliterated their home in the early days of the war. 

“For days, we lived in the open, with no roof over our heads, before seeking shelter in a nearby [Saint Porphyrius] church, but even the sacred walls proved no shield,” Fouad told The New Arab.

But when an Israeli airstrike struck Gaza’s oldest church in the early days of the war, Fouad and his family realised that even the walls of their most sacred sanctuary could no longer offer protection.

"I woke up to a thunderous explosion; the church had been hit," he said.

"When I stepped inside, the holy walls were shattered into shrapnel. There were bodies where prayers used to rise. I closed my daughter’s eyes so she wouldn’t see, and we ran,  hearts pounding, no idea where to go," Fouad adds. 

"We ended up pitching a tent in the cemetery, sleeping beside the dead just to stay among the living."

In the shadow of tombstones, they drank water unfit for consumption, hauling heavy jugs from distant points. Fouad and his brother William carried the containers across bomb-cracked roads, their shoulders aching under the weight.

"They told us not to drink that water," Fouad recalled. "But it was the only water left. We had to drink it.” 

Displacement became their only constant, from the cemetery to overcrowded shelters, then to the streets, and eventually to Gaza’s far south. Each time they found a place to rest, they were forced to leave again, warned, threatened, or bombed out. 

"I used to dream of dressing Mariam in white for the holiday," said Nour Ayad, Fouad’s sister. "Now I just want to find her a clean blanket to keep warm."

The family later returned to the church during the brief truce at the beginning of the year, when Israel allowed some displaced residents to head north. 

"We need solidarity. We need justice... Gaza is not just a place of war; it’s part of the Holy Land. And it deserves to live”

In a small, cracked corner of the church, Fouad claimed a sliver of space for his family. Amid broken beams and the lingering scent of ash, he pieced together a fragile shelter.

Each dawn, he sets out in search of whatever work he can find, carrying boxes, clearing rubble, distributing aid; anything to bring back a tin of food, a bit of medicine, or even a piece of candy for his daughter.

"I don’t just work to feed my child," he said. "I work to feel like I’m still human."

A silent reflection

George Anton, the head of the emergency committee at the Holy Family Church, echoed a similar sentiment, explaining how the attendees of the church are making space for prayer and reflection even amid the fear, hunger, and cruelty brought upon them by Israel's siege and genocide.

The toll has been devastating for his church. More than 20 members of his parish have been killed, accounting for over three percent of Gaza’s Christian population. Thirty-five others have been injured, most of them women and children. 

“We need solidarity. We need justice,” George tells The New Arab. “Gaza is not just a place of war; it’s part of the Holy Land. And it deserves to live.”

Each Easter, the Holy Fire is lit in Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a flame believed by followers of the faith to miraculously emerge from the tomb of Christ, and is carried with joy and ceremony to churches in Palestine.

But this year, as with the last, Israel has refused to allow the flame to enter Gaza.

“This light symbolises hope, resurrection, and faith,” George said.

“To block it is to deepen the darkness we already live in; it’s one more cruelty in a long list. It is a violation of our right to worship, a right guaranteed under every law and human charter.”

Khader al-Nasrawi, another Christian resident of Gaza who took refuge at the Holy Family Church, a Catholic parish in Gaza City, reflected on all that had been lost.

“Easter wasn’t just a religious moment,” he said. “It was a time when Muslim and Christian friends came together, for fireworks, for tree lighting, for joy.

"That spirit of celebration, that spirit of togetherness — the war has stolen it. Now, everywhere there’s death.”

He told The New Arab how fellow parishioners are preparing for this year’s Easter rites not with joy and song but with quiet resilience. 

“I remember how with the coming of each Easter in spring, we would smell flowers in the air,” Khader said.

“This year, despite all the challenges, we will gather whatever strength we have left to remember the resurrection not just of Christ, but of a people who, against all odds, refuse to disappear.”

Moataz al-Halaq and Youssef Yehia Abu Hashish are freelance writers from Gaza

This article is published in collaboration with Egab