Ramadan came to the devastated gauze. While the rest of the world moves with a solemn mood for a month of fasting and praying, we do this with sadness and sadness.
The echoes of the war still ring loudly. There is no security that this truce will last. People are worried about what is happening next. They are afraid that the war can return.
The memory and trauma we witnessed and experienced in the last year hanging in our heads.
Last year he was not the first time we were watching Ramadan during the war. In 2014, I was only nine years old, but I remember well that our Ramadan nights were filled with air attacks and destruction and how we had to rush from our house in the dark, fleeing the bombing in our neighborhood.
But Ramadan was different last year. It was unthinkable above. Hunger was everywhere. We have achieved all day, just to quickly break the can of hummus or beans that have shared between six people. Without electricity, in the dark we would chew canned foods without taste. We would barely see the faces of each other across the table.
We were far from most of our extended family. My grandmother, aunt and relatives I spent with Ramadan were scattered in different places, some were displaced in tents and others stuck in the north. The month of community has become the month of separation and isolation.
Ramadan is taken away from his joyful spirit. We wanted to hear Adhan (call to prayer) in Maghrib before broke our fast or on the FAJR before we started it. But these sounds never came. Each mosque was destroyed. There were people who wanted to make Adhan, but they were afraid – they were afraid that the sound of their voices would bring air attacks, that they would make them goals.
Instead of quickly breaking the familiar sound of Muezzin on the speakers of a nearby mosque, we broke it to the terrifying echoes of rockets and shots.
Before the war, after iftar I went with my family to the mosque to pray and see our loved ones. After that, we would walk through the streets of Gaza, enjoying the lively Ramadan atmosphere before we headed home to make Qatayef fresh.
But last year we couldn’t pray anywhere in the middle of genocide.
Even the big mosque is Omari – one of the most beautiful and historical Gaza mosques, where my father and brothers spent the last 10 nights of Ramadan, listening to the Qur’an recited in the most beautiful voices – bombed in ruins, broken out of recognition. A place that once echoed with prayers and peace was transformed into dust and ruins.
This year’s Ramadan begins during a truce. There are no air attacks that shake the ground as we quickly break. There is no explosion that echoed in silence. There is no fear of decorating our homes, hanging colorful lights that could make us targeted.
In the midst of pain and destruction, life – which has been on a break for so long – is trying to get back to the streets of Gaza.
Shops and markets that are not destroyed are re -open and street sellers have returned.
Even a large supermarket in Nuseiirat, Hyper Mall, opened its doors once more. Before Ramadan, my father took me and my sister there. We could barely restrain our excitement as we stepped into the bright illuminated market center. For a moment it felt like we had come back in time. The shelves were again supplied, filled with everything we longed for – different types of chocolate, biscuits and chips. There were Ramadan ornaments, the phenyies of all shapes and sizes, boxes of date, colorful dried fruit and Qamar al-din.
But this is plentiful. A large part of what fills the shelves comes on commercial trucks, which make up a large part of the trucks allowed in the gauze at the expense of humanitarian aid. At the same time, these products have become inaccessible to most people who have lost their lives and homes.
So what will most families break down this year? It will be a little more than canned beans: a simple rice meal, molokhia or any vegetables that can afford.
For the first iftar, my family will have a musakhan, a palestinian dish made of chicken, bread and lots of onions. We know we are among the lucky ones. The vast majority of people in Gaza cannot afford a fresh chicken that has re -appeared in the markets at a double pre -war price.
But a rich, traditional iftar is not the only thing that will miss from Ramadan tables in Gaza.
More than 48,000 people were killed during the war. The entire families are wiped out of the civilian register and will not observe Ramadan this year. There will be an empty seat on so many iftar tables: a father whose voice invites his children to the table will never be heard again, a son whose impatience to breaking his post will never be seen again or a mother whose skilled hands will never prepare delicious food again.
And I lost the people I love. My aunt’s husband, who invited us to iftar every year, was brutally killed. My friends Shaima, Lina and Roaa I used to meet in the mosque after the Tarawiha prayer was tortured.
The festive spirit is gone, but the core of Ramadan is here. This month is an opportunity to deviate from disturbance and concern for ordinary life and reconnect with our faith. Is a time of forgiveness. It is time to seek closeness with God and spiritual resistance.
Our mosques may have been destroyed, but our faith is not broken. We will continue to do Tarawih in semi -unstressed houses and tents, whispering all our desires in the du’a and seeking comfort in reciting the Qur’an, knowing that Allah will reward us for all the suffering we have suffered.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s and do not reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeere.
