Third Ramadan under Israeli genocide: Gaza embraces the holy month with silence and sadness

As Ramadan arrives in Gaza this week for the third year under the Israeli genocidal war, the city greets the holy month not with festivity but with fear and uncertainty. 

Streets once filled with lanterns and laughter are now lined with rubble, and the scent of qatayef and spices has been replaced by smoke and dust. 

The distant hum of drones and occasional explosions accompany preparations, as families brace themselves for another month of fasting under siege, trying to preserve rituals in a landscape defined by displacement, loss, and constant insecurity.

Despite the ceasefire announced on 10 October 2025, violence has not fully subsided.

According to the Gaza Health Ministry, 603 Palestinians have died, and 1,618 were wounded since the truce, pushing the overall toll since October 2023 to 72,063 killed and 171,726 injured. 

These figures weigh heavily on civilians, who enter the month of fasting with fear and uncertainty, clinging to the fragile remnants of daily life.

Displacement

In the displacement camps of Deir al-Balah, Umm Arkan Bashir, 40, a mother of seven displaced from Gaza City, sits outside her tent. 

"I no longer make a shopping list for Ramadan like I used to. Now I only think about who will sit next to me for iftar, and who is gone forever," she told The New Arab. 

Her home was destroyed in the early months of the war, and her eldest daughter died of a kidney disease worsened by the collapse of the health system. 

"We used to hang decorations on the balcony and share dishes with neighbours. Now all I wish for is a month that passes without bombing or forced displacement," he said. 

Her children, trying to recreate a sense of normalcy, make lanterns from paper and empty boxes. "They want Ramadan to feel real," she added, forcing a smile through the heaviness in her heart.

Nearby, Halima Baraka, 47, prepares to welcome her third Ramadan away from home. She and her daughter have moved between shelters repeatedly over the past two years. 

"Each time, we thought the displacement was temporary, that we would return soon," she says. "But the temporary has become the norm," she told TNA.

"We fear that the month will begin, and we will be forced to move again. Nothing is permanent here, not even memories," she added. 

The scale of displacement in Gaza is unprecedented. Local estimates suggest that most residents have been displaced at least once since the outbreak of war, and many have been displaced multiple times. 

The month of Ramadan, once a space of communal warmth and familial intimacy, now unfolds within tents and shelters where privacy is scarce and every meal is measured against scarcity.

Memories of the missing

Loss in Gaza extends beyond homes. Many mothers mourn children whose fates remain unknown. 

Sarah Abu Awili, 42, displaced from Khan Younis, has not heard from her 12-year-old son since he disappeared over a year ago while fleeing from Rafah. 

"He loved Ramadan. He used to count down the days and help me make sweets. Since his disappearance, I feel nothing. Every smell, every sound, is a painful memory," she lamented to TNA, as her tears welled. 

"He would insist on helping me in the kitchen, carefully shaping qatayef and decorating the trays. Every detail mattered to him. Since his disappearance, I feel nothing," she said. 

"The kitchen is silent, the trays empty. Every smell, every sound, every laugh from other children is a painful memory. I cannot bring myself to cook the sweets, because it only reminds me of what we have lost," she added. 

She paused, her voice trembling as she continued, "I find myself walking past the school he loved, imagining him running through the corridors, counting the days of Ramadan. I call his friends, ask about him, but there is no answer. Every day is a question without an answer, every night a prayer that goes unheard." 

"Unfortunately," she explained, "Ramadan has become a shadow of what it was; I do not celebrate, I survive. I try to smile for my other children, but inside, the emptiness is unbearable. It is like fasting from hope itself."

UN reports estimate between 8,000 and 11,000 people are still missing due to the war, with families waiting endlessly for answers.

Even among those who survive, grief has reshaped the rhythm of Ramadan. Mothers, children, and elderly residents move quietly, often talking only to recall what has been lost. 

The traditional joy of decorating homes, preparing iftar dishes, and gathering for communal prayers has been replaced by quiet reflection, the constant calculation of what is still possible in a city marked by trauma.

Abu Khaled Labad, 58, displaced from Rafah, emphasises the economic challenges that compound emotional loss. 

"The biggest challenge this year is providing for iftar and suhoor," he told TNA. 

Prices for basic food have skyrocketed, while incomes remain nearly nonexistent. "We think about bread and water first. Sweets and traditions are luxuries we cannot afford. Ramadan has become an economic burden on top of everything else," he complained. 

Separately speaking to TNA, local merchants in Gaza said that markets are limited to essentials. 

Lanterns, decorations, and other traditional goods are scarce, and families focus on bread, rice, and vegetables. 

Even in places where mosques remain intact, spiritual life is constrained. Some congregations hold prayers in open spaces or damaged buildings, where safety concerns dominate every step. 

Mohammed Abu Shaaban, a local man in Gaza City, told TNA that the people cling to taraweeh prayers "as if they are the last remaining space for peace, even under cracked roofs."

Fasting amid fear and fragility

Despite all hardships, faith endures. Conversations across camps reveal a shared hope: that fighting will stop, that families can return to their homes, that Ramadan can regain its meaning. 

"Ramadan teaches patience, and we have been patient for years. But we want to fast without fear, to gather without counting the absent," Um Ibrahim al-Dalu from Gaza City remarked to TNA.

"Ramadan has become a painful memory... but we endure because patience is all we have left," said Sarah.

The spiritual dimension persists even in austere conditions. In the shelters and among the rubble, families attempt small rituals: breaking fast together, quietly reciting prayers, and sharing stories of what once was. 

For many, Ramadan has become less a festival of joy than a measure of resilience, a time to endure, and a space to hope.