Another blood-soaked Eid al-Adha in Gaza, where Palestinians are the sacrifice

Eid al-Adha, the festival of sacrifice, now bears a cruel irony in Gaza. The sounds of joy are buried beneath the wail of grief, and the sweets of Eid come caked with ash and ruin. Under genocide, even the 'best days' of Dhul Hijjah are heavy with mourning. 

Before the war, a few fortunate pilgrims made the journey to Makkah to perform Hajj, one of Islam’s five pillars. But for over two years, no Gazan has set foot in those holy places — a silent, final blow to fading hopes.

Even Qurbani, the sacred ritual of animal sacrifice, is beyond reach. For more than two million Gazans, the thought of fresh meat is unbearable amid these dark days of famine — we don't even have flour, let alone livestock. 

Two months after the ceasefire collapsed, during Eid al-Fitr, thousands of Palestinians prayed amid rubble outside destroyed mosques and in schoolyards. The Israeli attacks were so brutal that Eid prayers became funeral rites for martyrs killed in the early morning.

Nearly 127 Palestinians died that day, 75% of them women and children. Children were killed in their new Eid clothes, playing near tents. Videos showed them, little girls with bracelets, boys in fresh shoes, snuffed out in a moment meant for celebration. This is the 'new normal' in Gaza — another Eid, more bloodshed. 

It didn't used to be like this, though. The air, fragrant with maamoul, kahk, and cookies baked by Palestinian women, once wafted across neighbourhoods like Al-Rimal as Umm Kulthum’s “Laylat al-Aid” played softly, her voice echoing, “Oh, night of the Eid, you cheered us up."

Children, their joy tangible, clutched toys and chocolates, the simple gifts that sparked delight. But now the children of Gaza, who used to stay up all night in anticipation, no longer count down to new clothes but to Israeli shells that fell on their neighbours, wearing coffins instead of clothes. 

The only Eid "gift" the children of Gaza want now is to see another morning; their hearts ache for past celebrations. In Gaza’s mosques, takbirs rise amid the groans of cracked walls. Every “Allahu Akbar” carries the tears of orphans and the sighs of grieving mothers. The muezzin’s call, once joyful, now sounds like a scream in a world’s silence — blood seeping from the city’s wounds.

Grief fills the eyes of those who have lost loved ones, while sorrow grips their hearts. The land remains soaked with martyrs’ blood; smoke darkens the sky. Though the sun rises over narrow streets, shadows of destruction grow longer, casting doubt on whether Eid’s light will ever return.

Only in Gaza is joy stained with blood. Only here do children lie wrapped in burial shrouds instead of Eid clothes, and funeral prayers replace celebrations. Dreams turn to nightmares, bodies to fragments. There is no peace in life or death — only pain, and the faintest hope for joy.

Huda Skaik is an English literature student, a writer, and a video maker. She is a member of We Are Not Numbers, and she also a contributor for Electronic Intifada and WRMEA. She dreams of a future as a professor, professional poet, and writer.

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