Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
Shoppers gather inside the Hyper Mall in Nuseirat camp under festive lighting and a hanging crescent moon during Ramadan.
This year, Ramadan has arrived in Gaza steeped in yearning and melancholic nostalgia. We lament so many dearest to us, faces that once animated our homes with warmth and laughter. We live under an internal exile within Gaza—a dislocation not only from our homes, but from the essence, the land, and the memories etched into our being wherever we go.
Our loved ones killed by Israel are considered martyrs in Islam, and their deaths leave a profound emptiness in our hearts that can only be eased through remembrance and prayer. Yet we gather in prayer and in tears during the quiet hours of the night, safeguarding their memory.
Ramadan—the holy month In Islam dedicated to fasting, prayer, reflection, and charity—teaches us this year especially that a homeland is not defined by walls, but by the people we love, the sense of safety that has been stolen from us, and the cherished memories we hold onto. It reminds us that worship is not merely ritual, but steadfastness in the face of irreparable loss, gratitude in the face of pain, and the conviction that Allah does not let a tear or a prayer go unnoticed. And despite our loved ones’ absence, we still welcome this month with faithful hearts, observing its rites and honoring its days and nights. We fast from dawn to sunset, pray, and recite and reflect on the Quran, among other traditions.
On streets where homes were destroyed and tents struggle to stay standing against winter rain and cold winds, the month offers us moments of reflection and spiritual renewal. Amid the scarcity of food, disrupted water and electricity, and the relentless terror that shadows daily life, Ramadan brings tenacious hope, compassion, and a reminder to find strength in faith when life feels unbearably hard.
In the weeks leading up to Ramadan, I spoke with Palestinians across Gaza about how they were preparing. The theme that emerged from these conversations was not the typical anticipation, but profound mourning.
Some told me that for the second year in a row, Ramadan has come without their families, who were killed during the genocide. Others said this is their first Ramadan without a brother, sister, mother, father, or close friend. Those who lost their entire families—lost those who once made their world meaningful—are caught in a cycle of loss and sorrow.
Several shared that Ramadan has arrived while they are living in tents rather than their homes, which were completely destroyed by Israeli bombing.
“Ramadan will come again, but my family will not,” said Noor, who is twenty-two years old and lives in the Nuseirat refugee camp in central Gaza. “I will set the iftar table alone, remembering the faces that once surrounded it.”
“The genocide didn’t only take our loved ones,” said Heba, who is twenty-one years old and lives in northern Gaza. “It erased the life we knew.”
Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
A traditional Ramadan lantern hangs at the entrance of the Hyper Mall in Nuseirat camp.
In Gaza, fasting, prayer, and endurance have become a single, unified act of survival. Despite all this, not everyone I spoke to had surrendered to grief. Some consciously chose to resist despair, sharing with complete sincerity their aspirations and goals beyond the scope of the genocide.
I asked a close friend to speak with her family members about how they are preparing for Ramadan, and what it means to them under the present conditions. Their responses showed a range of attitudes, from deep grief and loss to hope, and a determination to uphold traditions despite the challenges.
Saja, twenty-three, shared that her preparation began with focusing on her health. She planned to start a balanced diet, explaining that Ramadan is believed to be the most suitable time to regulate weight and improve digestive health, as fasting helps the body reset and regain balance.
Aya, twenty, emphasized the spiritual dimension of the month. She said she is determined not to miss the Taraweeh prayers, the special night prayers during Ramadan that begin after the evening prayer and continue until before dawn.
Ahmed, eight years old, expressed his commitment in simple but powerful terms. He intended to fast the entire month of Ramadan without missing a single day, unlike previous years when he practiced intermittent fasting.
Menna, eighteen, spoke with particular excitement about the last ten days of Ramadan. She was looking forward to Laylat al-Qadr, which translates to “Night of Power.” She describes it as the most blessed night, when acts of worship are the most spiritually significant and prayers are answered.
Abeer, forty-five, shared an ambitious spiritual goal. She hoped to complete the recitation of the Quran five times during the month, give zakat—one of the five pillars of Islam which involves donating a fixed percentage of income—to those in need, and engage in other acts of charity, praying that God will bless her health and the health of her children.
Beyond these preparations, one shared wish united them all: the hope that passing through the Rafah border crossing might become feasible, that essential goods will be allowed in, and that they might experience—even for a single day—a semblance of normalcy while they spent time with family.
In the heart of a camp in northern Gaza City, where fabric tent walls have replaced stone ones, strands of multicolored lights stretch between wooden poles and palm trees, zigzagging above a dirt path like a crown of glass jewels. Beneath this luminous canopy, children gather—their laughter a soft, rhythmic defiance against the silence of the surrounding ruins. The glow of the emerald, gold, and crimson bulbs reflects in their eyes, momentarily washing away the gray shadows of displacement. These aren’t just physical decorations; they make up an architectural act that represents unextinguished hope. By hanging these lights, the people of Gaza are rewriting the geography of their hardship, turning a narrow alley between tents into a sanctuary of celebration, proving that even in Gaza, the spirit of Ramadan cannot be dimmed by the dark.
Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
A glowing crescent moon decoration sits on the author’s desk, which she decorated as a “Ramadan corner” with lights and ornaments.
While I was immersed in the usual details of my final exam studies for my English Language and Literature degree at the Islamic University of Gaza, I decided to create a special “Ramadan corner” in my room that would honor the spirituality of this holy month, placing a glowing crescent adorned with Islamic patterns and hanging colorful decorative garlands that brought new life to the walls. It was my attempt to create a space of serenity and joy amid the pressures of life and study in Gaza.
But the real magic didn’t happen until the “little Ramadan guests” knocked on my door—my sister’s children, who came to share their laughter with us during the month. The moment they entered my room and saw the lights, stars, and crescent, their eyes lit up with wonder and delight. They ran to the strings of lights, examining every piece of decoration as if they had discovered a magical world.
“Take a picture of us with the decorations, Taqwa!” the children said. Of course, I couldn’t say no. They held up “Ramadan Kareem” cards and paper stars, sitting proudly in front of the large crescent. At that moment, I realized that the true value of decorations isn’t in their cost or appearance, but in the memories we create with our loved ones and in the way these simple surroundings can plant happiness in children’s hearts. It was a warm evening, where the lights of my room blended with their laughter, announcing that Ramadan had truly arrived in our home and in our hearts.
Ramadan always arrives at exactly the right time, reminding us that it is truly a month of mercy and blessings. In Gaza, where life is marked by the brutality of the Israeli occupation, the suffocating siege, and the enduring scars of genocide, its presence expands our hearts as if they were never confined. When the crushing weight of daily hardships, loss, and fear bears down on us, Ramadan breaks through the monotony, filling our days with compassion, devotion, and love. Even amid the relentless trials of life here, Ramadan lifts our burdens and soothes our souls, offering glimmers of hope, courage, and human connection despite the surrounding devastation.