Shadi Salem is a Palestinian writer from Gaza. In 2017, he co-founded the Edward Said Public Library, Gaza’s first English language library, with poet Mosab Abu Toha. His first book, Beneath the Gaza Sky, is forthcoming.
Muslims around the world celebrate Eid al-Fitr after the holy month of Ramadan, a time that is supposed to bring joy with family and friends, filling hearts with faith and piety. But once again this year, Eid arrived differently in Gaza, where it was overshadowed by the sorrow and pain of the past year and a half. While people in other parts of the world gathered around the table to exchange greetings, we in Gaza live trapped between perseverance, that central Palestinian value, and the destruction that has engulfed our strip of land.
Eid arrived this year to Gaza, where many families no longer have homes. They were destroyed by intense Israeli shelling and bombardment. People are left either on the streets or in tents that cannot protect them from the elements. How can joy exist in the midst of ruins? How can we celebrate when families that once decorated their homes for Eid are now huddled under makeshifts shelters, with no home at all?
Eid in Gaza once symbolized compassion and community, as families would come together, friends would exchange greetings and joyful tunes filled the streets. But Eid is now like an open wound. Its only music is a sorrowful tune that brings back painful images. When Eid arrived this week, the streets were empty, faces were pale and sorrow filled every corner of Gaza. Instead of celebrating, Gaza was again sinking under the weight of constant Israeli shelling and bombing, innocent lives being lost by the minute.
When Eid arrived this week, the streets were empty, faces were pale and sorrow filled every corner of Gaza.
- Shadi Salem
Gaza's streets were once decorated for Eid, with the smell of traditional sweets and dishes filling homes, children wearing new clothes, going house to house to celebrate. But these scenes are now gone. Israel's war has taken everything away, imposing a tragic reality that has left no space for joy. The streets are empty now, shops closed, families lacking even the simplest things to celebrate.
Eid arrived, but the war continued. The deafening shudder of bombs again filled the air. For every Palestinian in Gaza, there is still a daily struggle just to survive. Israeli missiles may steal the lives of anyone, including children, who try to find a way to laugh and play. How can we celebrate in such a moment, when we know that life can be stolen at any minute? How can Eid even exist amid this darkness?
This is the third Eid I have not been able to celebrate with my family in Gaza because of Israel's war and its ongoing closure of border crossings. Each year, I am deprived of the chance to reunite with them. The pain of separation has become part of my daily life, compounded by the continuous talk of the displacement of Gaza's people. As Israel again attempts to force us to leave our land and our homes, it has stolen from me even the possibility of being with my family again. I long for the day when the borders will be opened, and I can return to them, sit with them again, laugh and exchange greetings as we once did—in Gaza.
I called my sister in Gaza to get a sense of the atmosphere of Eid. She told me that an Israeli "quadcopter" drone had been firing on people in the early morning and then suddenly disappeared. "We will spend Eid at home, as the shelling is too much around us, and no one dares to go out," she added in a quiet voice. How can Eid be Eid at all when we are living under constant shelling and drone strikes? How can we celebrate with each other, and wish everyone a blessed feast—Eid Mubarak—while the sounds of death and destruction fill the air? In phone calls with my family in Gaza, Eid became something else: not a celebration, but a symbol of resistance and steadfastness in the face of occupation and war.
Eid arrived, but the war continued. The deafening shudder of bombs again filled the air.
- Shadi Salem
"There is no Eid atmosphere, but what can we do?" my mother told me. "We try as much as we can." She was going to visit the families of her brothers who were killed in the war, as well as her sister, who lost her husband. My mother's words were filled with sorrow but also expressed an unbreakable strength. She did not lose hope in life. "We try as much as we can," she said, as if sending a message to all of us to remain steadfast no matter what.
My family has lost so much in this war. In addition to my mother, who lost two of her brothers, my father lost two of his brothers. The pain of loss runs deep, and memories follow us wherever we go. "I used to live with my brothers in beautiful times, and today, we remember them more on this Eid, but we still search for traces of them," my mother told me. Her resilience is the reliance of every mother in Gaza. My father cannot hold back his tears when he remembers his two brothers. During Eid, we became more connected to their memories, but any joy we felt this Eid remembering them was fleeting, lost to mourning and sorrow.
Losing loved ones is not only my family's experience; it is the experience of everyone Gaza, who have lost family in airstrikes, in shelling, in sniper attacks, and in starvation and disease. So many people in Gaza—friends, neighbors, loved ones—have disappeared suddenly. How can Eid be celebrated in the absence of those we love? How can there be joy when memories of everyone we lost still haunt us? This Eid, we hear about mothers who have lost all their children, and fathers living in indescribable torment after losing their sons. My mother, who lost two of her brothers, remembers life before the war, when Eid used to bring moments of joy and happiness. But today, Eid is filled with tears.
How did you arrive, Eid? You came at a time when we don't know the meaning of rest, at a time when pain still follows us. But despite everything, hope remains. Gaza, amid all its suffering, still holds on to the dream of peace in its heart. This Eid is not a celebration; it is a reminder of the strength of patience and faith, a confirmation that life will continue despite the destruction. "We may live in ruins," my mother says, "but we will never lose hope." These words live in us and give us the strength to go on, no matter what we face.
