Ramadan devastated Gaza. The rest of the world embarks on a celebratory mood in the month of fasting and prayer, but we do so with sorrow and sorrow.
The echo of war still squeals. I’m not sure this ceasefire will continue. People are worried about what will happen next. They fear that the war might return, Al Jazeera reported.
The memories and trauma of what we witnessed and experienced have been heavy on our minds over the past year.
Last year was not the first time I’d observed Ramadan during the war. In 2014, I was only nine years old and I remember very well how the night of Ramadan was filled with airstrikes and destruction, and how I had to run out of my house in the darkness and escape the bombings of my neighbourhood.
However, last year’s Ramadan was different. It was unimaginably bad. Hunger was everywhere. We fasted all day, but quickly broke with cans of hummus and beans shared between the six of us. There was no electricity and I chewed tasteless canned food in the dark. We’ll barely see each other’s faces on the table.
We were separated from most of our large family. My grandmother, aunts and cousins that I used Ramadan were all scattered in different places, some were placed in tents and others were stuck north. The Moon of Integrity has become a month of separation and isolation.
Ramadan was stripped of that joyous spirit. We wanted to hear the adan (prayer call) in maghrib in fazil before breaking the fast or before we begin. But those sounds never came. All mosques were destroyed. There were people who wanted to do Adhan, but they were afraid. They were afraid that the sound of their voices would bring air and that would target them.
Instead of breaking the fast to the familiar sound of Muezzin on the speakers of a nearby mosque, we smashed it into a horrifying echo of missiles and gunfire.
Before the war, I went to the mosque with my family after Iftar to pray and met our loved ones. After that we took a walk around the city of Gaza, enjoyed the vibrant Ramadan atmosphere, then headed home to make Kataev.
However, last year there was no place in Genocide where I could go to pray for Tarawee.
Even the Great Omali Mosque, one of Gaza’s most beautiful and historic mosques, where his father and brothers spent the last 10 nights in Ramadan, heard the Quran recited in the most beautiful voice – was crushed beyond recognition and bombed by abandoned in. The place once echoed with prayer and peace has been transformed into dust and tile ble.
Ramadan this year will begin during a ceasefire. When we break fast, there is no air that shakes the earth. There is no echoing explosion in Fazil’s silence. We are not afraid to decorate our homes, shining colorful lights that may target us.
In the midst of pain and devastation, life has been suspended for a long time – is about to return to the streets of Gaza.
Undestructed shops and markets have reopened and street vendors have returned.
Even Hyper Mall, a big supermarket in Nuseirat, opened the door once more. Before Ramadan, my father took me and my sister there. We were almost able to contain our excitement as we stepped into the brightly lit mall. For a while, it felt like we had gone back in time. The shelves were again stocked and filled with all the things we longed for, including different kinds of chocolate, biscuits, chips and more. There were Ramadan decorations, lanterns of all shapes and sizes, date boxes, colorful dried fruits, and kamaardin.
However, this wealth is deceptive. Much of the things that fill the shelves are in commercial trucks that make up the majority of trucks put in Gaza at the expense of humanitarian aid. At the same time, these products have become uncontrollable for most people who have lost their livelihoods and homes.
So, what will most families fast this year? It’s a little more than canned beans. A simple meal of rice, molokia or vegetables that you can afford.
In the first Iftar, my family has Musafan, a Palestinian dish made from chicken, sajipan and lots of onions. We know we are one of the lucky ones. The majority of Gaza people can’t afford fresh chicken that has reappeared in the market for twice the price they had before the war.
However, the rich and traditional Iftar is not the only thing missing from the Ramadan table in Gaza.
Over 48,000 people were killed during the war. The whole family has been wiped out of civil registration and will not observe Ramadan this year. There are empty seats at a very large number of Iftar tables. A father who never hears the voice calling their children to the table, a son who can never see the impatience that breaks the fast, or a mother whose skilled hands never prepares delicious food again.
I lost someone I love too. My aunt’s husband, who invited us to Iftar every year, was brutally murdered. My friends, Shaima, Lina and Roaa, met at the mosque after Tarawi’s prayers.
The spirit of celebration is gone, but this is where Ramadan is at its core. This month is your chance to move away from the concerns of distractions and normal life and reunite with your faith. That’s the time of forgiveness. It’s time to seek intimacy to God and spiritual resilience.
Our mosque may have been destroyed, but our faith has not been broken. We still do Tarawi in half-destroyed houses and tents, whispering all our wishes in Duaa and seeking the comfort of reciting the Quran, knowing that Allah will reward us for all the suffering we endured.
Esraa Abo Qamar is a Palestinian writer based in Gaza.