Before the genocide in Gaza, during the last nights of Ramadan each year, my family in Gaza and I would eagerly wait for the Maghrib prayer to break our fast. After performing the nightly Taraweeh prayer and enjoying qatayef, small pancake-like dumplings filled with nuts and coconut that are traditionally served during Ramadan, we couldn’t wait to go to the markets and start getting ready for Eid al-Fitr.
The markets would be alive with people, full of excitement after the fast-breaking iftar meal as families went out to buy new clothes for Eid. The shop lights stayed bright late into the night, while vendors called out cheerfully to showcase their goods. From the houses, the sweet smell of traditional baked goods drifted into the streets, filling the entire neighborhood with the festive spirit of Eid.
My father would go to buy special sweets for Eid. We would then spend the last days of Ramadan with my mother, hesitating over our choices before finally picking the most beautiful outfits, all the while she took care of other preparations. In our house, she would prepare for Eid early, cleaning the house carefully, wiping the windows, and arranging everything just so. She even cleaned the tops of the cupboards, as if Eid were an important guest who had to be welcomed into a tidy home.
In the kitchen, we would begin the journey of making ka’ak, sweet ring-shaped cookies, and maamoul, sweet filled cookies with dates and nuts. I would sit beside her and help her place the dates or walnuts inside the maamoul and ka’ak with great enjoyment. The smell of baking in the oven filled the house, announcing that Eid was very near.
When Eid began at sunset, I used to stand by our window, watching the street lit up with lights, joy, songs, and the Eid activities.
On the morning of Eid, we always woke up early. I would open the same window to see the men going out for the Eid prayer in their white galabiyas, traditional long clothes worn for special occasions, with their young children full of excitement. The Eid takbeerat—calls of “Allahu Akbar,” a phrase of worship meaning “God is most great”—echoed over the loudspeakers, and once the prayer ended, everyone hugged and exchanged Eid greetings.
As for us at home, we would wait eagerly for my father to return from the Eid prayer so we could receive our Eidiyyat—Eid money given to children as a gift—with love and happiness, wishing each other goodness and blessings.
Then came the time for Eid visits. Everyone wore their new clothes, and as we went to visit relatives, we saw children running around with balloons and bags full of sweets. The boys played with toy plastic guns and wore black or blue sunglasses while the girls carried Barbie dolls and wore red or pink glasses.
In every house we visited, sweets, ka’ak, maamoul, and coffee decorated the tables, and we shared conversations and laughter.
After some time, I would plan an Eid outing with my friends. We would choose a restaurant to eat shawarma, talk about how the Eid had gone, and laugh a lot. At the end of a long day, we said goodbye to each other.
Everything meant so much to us.
In Gaza, during 2024 and 2025, Eid arrived while we were living through war. This year, Eid does not come during a war, but that doesn't mean the war is behind us. We are not in our home, our neighborhood, or our streets—everything has been completely and mercilessly destroyed. Instead, we will celebrate Eid in a displacement tent, far from our neighborhood, without our dearest friends.
I cannot look out from the window of our house, because our house has been turned into rubble. Even now, we cannot reach it, as it lies within what is called the “yellow zone,” where Israeli forces remain in control.
I remember last year’s Eid very well—2025. Despite the bombing, we tried to prepare for Eid. We got our clothes ready and bought some sweets and dates, despite the high prices. But suddenly, an evacuation order came from the Israeli army, and we had to leave the house quickly. We took only a few things with us, and left that day wearing our Eid clothes. Shortly after, our house was destroyed, and we have not even returned to the site since.
Today, as we approach another Eid, we anxiously keep an eye on the weather forecast. Storms and heavy rain are expected, and my mind keeps racing with questions: Will the floods reach us on the first day of Eid? What would we do if the flood engulfed our displacement tent? How did our lives change so much from what they once were?
Yet, whenever I feel weak and overwhelmed with sorrow, I try to remember the true meaning and purpose of Eid. In Islam, Eid comes after Ramadan as a gift from God, following a full month of fasting and patience. Even when we lose our homes and the life we deserve, we try to hold on to this gift.