This Ramadan in Gaza, we hold on to hope

As Ramadan begins, Palestinians in Gaza mark the holy month under a fragile ceasefire and with a hesitant joy. This year, the holy month actually holds the possibility – however delicate – of worship without terror, fasting without fear of death, and prayer without the sound of bombs in the background.

But, in reality, we are still feeling unsettled as the bombardment hasn’t ceased.

We also live with the traumatic reminder that the genocide could return, just as it did last Ramadan. Last year we started our month of mercy with a ceasefire, but just days later Israel defied it and renewed its attacks. Certainly, we know all too well how easily the sky can become hostile.

Today, the crescent rises over a different Gaza. It rises over flattened neighbourhoods and torn tents. It visits us over destroyed mosques and homes. It shines on families breaking their fast in camps and on the debris of their homes, instead of the crowded dining tables that once existed under each roof.

Ramadan is meant to cultivate restraint and reflection. From dawn until sunset, Muslims abstain from food and drink to discipline the body and sharpen compassion for the hungry. In Gaza, that lesson has taken on a harsher dimension. Hunger here has not been symbolic, and loss has not been abstract.

Yet we take comfort in the knowledge that no matter what happens, Ramadan still announces itself.

Bittersweet

Ramadan in Gaza has always been collective — a month when the city moves in unison. This year as families decorated their semblance of a home, they hung lanterns from balconies overlooking shattered streets. Strands of coloured lights now stretch between damaged buildings. Children countdown the hours to sunset when they can light their fawanees.

We are trying our best to recover from the years of relentless genocide. We’re attempting to reclaim the ‘normal’ that once existed. As Palestinians, we know not to be consumed by the darkness that we’ve endured. We must keep going, there is no other choice.

Markets stay open late again. Radios play familiar classic Ramadan melodies. And for the first time in years, stalls display abundance: soups, dates, spices, nuts, qamar al-din, carob, hibiscus, almonds, walnuts, raisins, coffee, and trays of qatayef waiting to be filled with sweet cream. The sight of shelves filled with these treats feels almost disorienting after months of scarcity.

Of course, not everyone can afford what is displayed. Many families exhausted their savings during the genocide. The abundance in the markets coexists alongside the quiet desperation.

Joy is present, but incomplete.

Nearly every family carries the weight of an absence at the iftar table. Names of the dead are spoken softly during duaa, and supplication fills what conversation cannot.

Together, once again

Taraweeh, the special nightly prayers performed during Ramadan, often in mosques as well as homes, traditionally marks a time of spiritual renewal. And whilst many of the mosques have been severely damaged or destroyed, worshippers have nevertheless gathered at landmarks like the Great Omari.

Seeing the first night’s collective prayer only demonstrated the level of our faith.

Last year, congregational prayer felt impossible, even dangerous. This year, walking to the mosque carries relief. Under faint lights, rows form again. The imam’s recitation steadies hearts still frayed by trauma. Tears fall freely during duaa. People ask not only for forgiveness and mercy, but for peace to endure, and for this Ramadan to be allowed to finish.

After that first Taraweeh, during the pre-dawn meal before the first day of fasting, I sat with my family around one table, talking, laughing, sharing suhoor, and something inside me softened. I had missed this intimacy, the way Ramadan gathers us in one place for something joyous.

We decorated our home with simple lights and lanterns. I went to the market to buy small gifts for each family member to welcome the month. I read the first juz of the Quran. I called relatives and sent ‘Ramadan Mubarak’ messages to friends, just to feel the thread of connection stretching across distances and grief.

I helped my mother prepare iftar and stuff the qatayef with sweet cream, dates, and walnuts. Before Maghrib, my brother and I walked through Al-Rimal neighbourhood as the sky turned amber, reciting evening adhkar while the city waited for the call to prayer.

As sunset approached, we gathered for that tender moment when the fast was gently broken—when the first sip of water touched parched lips and the date melted sweetness back into our bodies.

We gathered with love around the table for my mother’s fatta, soup, samosas, and juice — a meal that flooded my mind with wonderful memories. Our eyes carried a mixture of sadness, longing, gratitude to Allah for survival, and hope that what is coming will be better than what has been.

After the iftar meal, we walked together to the partially destroyed Al-Kinz mosque in our neighbourhood.

That night, when I went to pray taraweeh, relief washed over me in a way I had not expected. It has a healing rhythm. The imam’s voice reciting Quran after two years of interrupted communal prayer during the genocide made my body tremble. It felt as if something long frozen inside my chest had finally thawed.

The duaa felt like it cleansed my heart. For a moment, I was transported back to the Ramadans before the genocide — before fear replaced serenity.

After prayer, my brother and I strolled beneath faint golden lights strung across streets that are no longer fully dark, but not fully bright either. We drank coffee and had some cake at a small cafe nearby. At home later, we ate qatayef and drank more coffee in an attempt to stretch the night as much as we could, as if to stop it from ending.

Ramadan, as always, came at the perfect time for the people of Gaza. It’s a healing visit for from an old friend following over two years of absolute hell. It is my medicine. It is a time of collective grieving, of remembering the past, but also of holding onto the faith that the light of hope will never fade.

It is not a return to what was, but an insistence on gathering and drawing strength from one another — even under the uncertainty of what tomorrow may bring.

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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