We once excitedly waited for Eid mornings, laying out our new clothes the night before, eager to see loved ones and celebrate together. But now, instead of greeting them with joy, many are standing at the doors of the morgues, saying their final goodbyes. Even in grief, Gaza is not granted a moment of silence — the bombs continue to fall.
On Eid mornings, homes brimmed with warmth and joy as families set out to visit or receive their relatives. As the sun rises, the streets come alive with laughter as children gather with their friends, setting off fireworks into the besieged skies, clinging to the traditions that make Eid feel like Eid.
These scenes were there during the Eid of 2023.
But what about last year or this one?
In 2024, Eid found me trapped in northern Gaza. The streets were not adorned with lights and decorations. Instead, they were soaked in the blood of martyrs — men, women, and children who were targeted by the Israeli army. Dust and rubble lay a blanket on every corner.
I used to wake up on the first morning of Eid to the sound of the Takbeerat — Takbeerat Al-Eid are the traditional chants of "Allahu Akbar" (God is Great) recited by Muslims on the morning of Eid — echoing through the city in celebration. But last year, I woke up to the sound of Israeli tanks shelling the neighborhood, shaking the ground beneath us, and sniper fire killing anyone who dared step outside.
I will never forget the day I saw a young man from my neighborhood riding his bicycle be met with an Israeli tank around the corner of his route. I watched in horror as nine bullets tore through his back, leaving him lifeless in the very street I would later be forced to flee through.
To look outside your window was a death sentence during the siege of the north — anyone spotted by the occupiers was marked for execution. But that day, I couldn't help myself. I heard the faint, desperate voice of that young man and peeked. He wasn’t dead yet. He was begging for help, pleading for a sip of water. But no one could reach him. No one could save him. That moment haunts me still. It stole sleep from my eyes for countless nights!
I will also never forget the time I saw hunger devouring my grandmother’s frail body. She had been suffering from brain damage due to strokes that occurred after losing my grandfather a year before the war. The weight of that loss left her with Alzheimer's, and her doctor had always insisted that she needed to eat a hearty meal after taking her medicine, as its effects were strong and could only help her if she had something to sustain her. But how could she? During those long months of war, there was no medicine, no real food to nourish her, only flour.
I never imagined that the Eid of 2024 would be her last with us. That Eid, she looked at me, trying to remember my name but couldn’t. A few days passed and my grandmother passed away.
Like most families in Gaza, the agony does not stop with one death. That Eid would also turn out to be the last one for my youngest uncle. While we were in the north with my grandmother, my uncle had been forced to flee to the south. The Israeli blockade prevented him from seeing her. He would always call her, just to hear her voice, crying because she could feel his presence him, but could not remember his name clearly. The pain grew heavier for him as he realized that his mother died because of starvation.
Two months after my grandmother’s death, I received the devastating news of my uncle’s passing. It was a shock. The night before he passed away, he called my mother, pouring his heart out to her, telling her how devastated he was because he couldn’t say goodbye to his mother, and how much he wished he could ease her pain. We learned that my uncle didn’t die from a bullet or a bomb. Rather he died from the weight of sorrow that displacement bestowed on him of never seeing his mother and my mother again, of losing everything he ever had — his home and his world.
He couldn't bid farewell to my grandmother because of the divide that tore our family apart in this shattered homeland. Yet, he managed to meet her again in death. Has this become the only way one could reunite with displaced relatives? Is death now the only bridge connecting us to them?
This Eid, the war continued.
I wonder how many children spent this Eid sitting atop the graves of their parents. My little cousin, who hasn’t even turned six, told my mother: "I want to distribute cookies [in honor of my] dad’s soul to everyone in the cemetery."
How much longer will we spend our Eids in grief?
In Gaza, most of our Eids have been marked by war. In 2008 and 2009, we endured escalated attacks. In 2014, a brutal war stretched into Eid, lasting 51 days. The same happened in 2021, and again in 2024 and 2025.
Will the Eid of 2025 be the last one overshadowed by war? I hope so.
