Orthodox Christmas in Gaza: Faith, survival, and worship after Israel's genocide

On the morning of 7 January, the bells of Saint Porphyrius Church rang softly through Gaza Old City, cutting through the streets that were still buried under rubble and dust.

Inside the ancient stone walls of the third-oldest church in the world, Orthodox Christians gathered to mark Christmas with prayers shaped by survival.

Saint Porphyrius, a 5th-century church standing as a witness to centuries of wars, faith, and endurance, was itself bombed by Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) on 19 October 2023, in the early days of the genocide in Gaza. Seventeen Palestinian Christians were killed while sheltering inside its compound.

For many here, Christmas now carries the weight of that night and of everything that followed.

This year's Orthodox Christmas came amid what is being called a ceasefire — fragile, uncertain, and shadowed by two years of devastation, mass displacement, and loss. Yet for Gaza's small Christian community, simply returning to the church and praying was itself an act of defiance.

"We are trying to rejoice," 60-year-old Elyas al-Jildah told The New Arab, standing in the courtyard where families were gathering after they prayed.

"Rejoicing today is an attempt to renew life itself."

For Elyas, Christmas is a Christian message and a Gazan one. "The message of Christmas is renewal, hope, and joy. This message is for everyone in Gaza, not just Christians. What we have lived through was unbearably harsh. But hope is something we must hold onto."

The past two Orthodox Christmases were marked by absence.

In 2024, celebrations were impossible after the church was attacked and Christians were displaced inside churches, shelters, and other houses. Then, in 2025, hunger, bombardment, and an intensifying siege drained any remaining sense of festivity.

"This year," Elyas continued, "the ceasefire gives us a small opening to breathe. We hope it is the beginning of the end, and the beginning of reconstruction."

Inside the church, icons flickered under candlelight. Some families stood silently, others whispered prayers for those who did not survive to see this day.

"Our presence protects Palestinian history. Christianity is a pillar of Palestinian identity. By celebrating Christmas here, we assert our existence and our belonging to this land"

Many Christian families in Gaza are still living inside Saint Porphyrius or the Holy Family Church, unable to return to homes that no longer exist.

"What we miss most are our loved ones," Elyas said. "We miss our homes, our memories, our social bonds. I lost friends, neighbours — Christians and Muslims alike. Sometimes I feel I am living in a different world, among people who are no longer the same. This Christmas tastes different: part grief, part hope."

That contradiction was present everywhere.

For Fuad Ayyad, this Christmas is both the most beautiful and the most painful he remembers. "It comes after two very difficult years," the 44-year-old told The New Arab. 

"It comes after a ceasefire we hope will last. But it also comes with 17 martyrs from the church massacre. For their families, this is not a celebration."

Fuad and his wife had not celebrated Christmas at all during the years of genocide. Before the war, Orthodox Christmas meant travelling to Bethlehem, visiting holy sites, and gathering with extended family.

"This year," he said, "our tourism is limited to the rubble and destruction around us."

Israel's horrific genocide has left wounds that time alone cannot heal. Fuad remembers the night the IOF bombed the civilians inside the church.

"I will never forget seeing women and children covered in blood," he said. "This will never leave my memory."

I asked him what he misses most; his answer was simple: "Life, in its true meaning."

For some, hope remains distant. "I don't see hope," Fuad admitted. "I only hope that next year the crossings will be opened and I can celebrate Christmas in Bethlehem again."

The inability of Gaza's Christians to reach Bethlehem, the birthplace of Christ, is a recurring wound.

"We are the only Christians in the world barred from reaching the city of Christ's birth," Elyas said. "Every Christian can pray there — except us.”

Yet even within confinement, faith persists.

Thirty-five-year-old Montaser Tarazi described this year's Christmas as a new beginning. "For the first time, the bombing stopped," he said.

"Food entered Gaza. Some prices are still high, but famine has eased. I can walk the streets again without fear of instant death."

The celebrations remain modest. There are no public festivities, no large gatherings. "We celebrate by attending church, by praying," Montaser said. "That alone is enough."

During the genocide, hope nearly disappeared. "But hope is what allows a person to continue. I believe this nightmare will end completely," he shared with The New Arab.

Montaser lost close friends in the 19 October church massacre, including Dr Suliman Tarazi.

"The occupation did not respect the sanctity of a religious place. That pain follows us into every holiday," he added. 

Still, survival itself has become a source of meaning. "We survived two years of genocide. That alone is extraordinary."

"For Gaza's Orthodox Christians, Christmas is no longer a moment of unburdened joy. It is an act of memory. An act of faith. An act of presence"

For Montaser, being a Palestinian Christian in Gaza today means preservation.

"Our presence protects Palestinian history. Christianity is a pillar of Palestinian identity. By celebrating Christmas here, we assert our existence and our belonging to this land."

Among the congregation was 11-year-old Jeehan Tarazi; her small voice carried a truth adults struggled to articulate. "Today feels like a real holiday," she told The New Arab. "For the first time in a long time, I'm really happy."

Before the war, Christmas meant walking through Gaza City's streets, visiting cafes by the sea, laughing freely. "Now everything is destroyed. We barely made it to church."

Her losses are personal and heavy. Relatives fled Gaza. Others were killed. "When I remember how we used to visit each other, I start crying," she said.

During the war, hope disappeared. "Now that it ended, I have big hope for a more beautiful future," she said softly.

When I asked her what message she would send to the world, her answer was: "I want Gaza to be rebuilt so I can walk in the streets again."

As the mass ended, families embraced quietly. No fireworks lit the sky. No songs echoed through the streets. But within Saint Porphyrius, something endured — an insistence on life.

For Gaza's Orthodox Christians, Christmas is no longer a moment of unburdened joy. It is an act of memory. An act of faith. An act of presence.

"We are Gazans," Elyas said. "Our symbol is the phoenix. We rise again."

In a city where entire neighbourhoods have been erased, the bells of Saint Porphyrius rang to remind the world that Gaza's Christians are still here.

Ali Skaik is an English literature student and writer from Gaza City. Follow him on Instagram: @ali._.skaik