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.
Ramadan in Gaza has always been a special month, where the nights are illuminated by lanterns, markets bustle with life and mosques echo with the sounds of Taraweeh prayers at night. It is a time when the values of love, solidarity and generosity are most evident, as families gather around the Iftar table and children eagerly await the Maghrib call to prayer, running through the alleyways with their small lanterns.
But this year, like last year, Ramadan is not the same, because of Israel's devastating war. Streets that once teemed with passersby and shoppers are now deserted, covered in dust and rubble. The once-thriving markets have become ruins, and the shops have been reduced to piles of stones. Vendors can only sell what little they manage to acquire on small street stalls, as customers stare at prices that no longer match what they can afford. The sounds of life that used to fill the city have turned into a heavy silence, occasionally broken by the roar of Israeli warplanes that never leave Gaza's skies.
Preparing for Ramadan was once a time of joy and anticipation in Gaza. My mother would take my brother to the market to buy dates and pickles, while the scent of freshly baked bread and lovingly prepared cakes filled the air. We would plan for Ramadan gatherings and late-night Suhoor meals, where stories and laughter blended with the cool night breeze.
The evening Taraweeh prayers brought people together from all walks of life. Mosques would be filled with worshippers, their hearts at peace as they sought solace in prayer. Children played in the streets late into the night, full of excitement—instead of fearing Israeli bombings or the menacing hum of drones that are now an inseparable part of daily life. Despite its simplicity and even hardship then, life in Gaza was once full of light and hope, and Ramadan was a time that united everyone in moments of fleeting peace.
Many families in Gaza are either homeless, living in the streets or crammed into small tents, making it impossible to observe the Ramadan traditions they once cherished.
- Shadi Salem
"Ramadan used to bring us together as a family," my mother tells me from Gaza today. I still cannot return home after leaving Gaza just before the war, in the fall of 2023, for a cultural program in Malaysia. "We would sit around the Iftar table, sharing stories, planning visits to relatives and neighbors," she recalls. "But today, everything has changed. We prepare food cautiously, ration the little we have, and our minds are consumed with worry and hardship. We ask ourselves: Will the cease-fire hold? Will the war return? Will we live to see another Ramadan?"
This year, many families in Gaza are either homeless, living in the streets or crammed into small tents, making it impossible to observe the Ramadan traditions they once cherished. Gaza's once-vibrant spaces have turned into places filled with suffering, as a simple Iftar meal has become a distant dream for many.
Tables are no longer filled with an abundance of food. Meals have become scarce, water is difficult to find and markets stand empty, except for a few overpriced essentials. People wander through the rubble searching for sustenance, while children struggle to adapt to a harsh reality they have never known before. Every meal prepared is now an achievement, and every bite shared among family members is a testament to unyielding patience and resilience.
"The Iftar table is not what it used to be," my brother tells me from Gaza. "There are no qatayef (a favorite Ramadan dessert), no Ramadan drinks. We sit around a table that is almost empty, reflecting on those we have lost more than the food before us. Ramadan has become a time to remember the dead rather than celebrate life."
The Taraweeh prayers that once brought people together in mosques every night during Ramadan are now a challenge. Many mosques have been destroyed or are packed with displaced families. Yet the people of Gaza continue to pray in open courtyards, lighting the candles of faith amidst the darkness of war. Every prostration under Israel's renewed bombardment is an act of defiance, and every prayer performed among the ruins is a declaration that Gaza, and that Palestinians, will never be broken.
The aroma of food that once filled the air has been replaced by the stench of destruction and smoke. Vendors complain about the lack of customers, as even those who make it to the market can barely afford the essentials. With Israel's blockade tightening and once again humanitarian aid cut off, fear of the future looms over everyone. Ramadan in Gaza has become a month of agonizing anticipation, where people wait for aid as they wait for death—unsure of which will arrive first.
Streets that once teemed with passersby and shoppers are now deserted, covered in dust and rubble. The once-thriving markets have become ruins, and the shops have been reduced to piles of stones.
- Shadi Salem
"I used to love going to the mosque for Taraweeh prayers; it was where I truly felt the spirit of Ramadan," my sister tells me from Gaza. "The warm glow of lanterns, the voices of worshippers rising in unison, the tranquility that wrapped around us like a protective shield—all of it made Ramadan feel sacred. But today, the mosques that once embraced our prayers lie in ruins, or they are overcrowded with displaced families seeking shelter rather than solace," she adds. "The call to prayer, once a sound that soothed our souls, now feels like a painful reminder of those we have lost. Even our supplications have changed—now they are laden with tears, blending hope with sorrow. We call upon God from the heart of devastation, and we feel that the sky listens, but it weeps with us."
Despite the destruction, some in Gaza still light a candle in the darkness. Children, despite being deprived of lanterns and gifts, create joy from the simplest things. Families, despite losing their homes, cling to hope, fasting and praying for a Ramadan in which they will be in a better place. Every new day is a battle for survival, and every night spent under bombardment is proof that life will not surrender.
With so many mosques lost to the war, their rubble-strewn open courtyards have become places of worship, where people gather in scenes of patience and faith that embody the central Palestinian value of sumud—steadfastness or perseverance. Over 1,000 mosques have been destroyed or severely damaged in Gaza by Israel's military offensive—1,109 to be precise, according to the Ministry of Awqaf—along with three churches. Among the mosques destroyed was the Great Omari Mosque, the oldest mosque not only in Gaza but all of Palestine, its minaret dating back to the Mamluk era. The mosque sits on a site that has been a center of worship since the time of the Philistines. But now its ruins are a symbol of Israel's destruction of Gaza's culture and heritage.
Families who once had homes now live in tents or among the rubble, with over 40 million tons of debris covering the besieged territory. In my own family, my father lost two of his brothers, my mother lost two of hers, and we have lost countless relatives and neighbors. Entire families have been erased from the civil registry—902 families wiped out completely, leaving no survivors.
"Despite the hunger and destruction, I still prepare food for my children with whatever I can find," my mother says with her quiet defiance. "Every bite we eat in Ramadan is a blessing, and every prayer we offer is a glimmer of hope. We do not know how this month will pass, but we know that we will not surrender. We will continue to pray, and we will continue to hold onto life because we believe that dawn will come one day. And one day, Ramadan will return as it once was, and we will celebrate as humans deserve to celebrate."
