In Gaza, Palestinians observe Ramadan amid grief and ruin

'Life feels empty'

For years, Suad al-Ashi, 67, looked forward to Ramadan as a time when she could gather her children and grandchildren around the iftar table, a reunion often impossible during the rest of the year due to their busy lives. This year, that cherished tradition will not be able to take place. "How can I gather my family?" she asks. 

"Four of my children were martyred in the war, and seven of my grandchildren are gone. They have left me with a sorrow that will weigh on my heart for the rest of my life. Ramadan was once a month of joy, a balm for the soul. This year, it is as sharp as a blade, cutting through my heart and stripping it of meaning." 

She recalls cherished Ramadan nights spent with those she has lost, each memory unravelling with a fresh wave of tears. "We used to gather in our garden, enveloped in the spiritual warmth of the evening, sharing a meal of mallow and chicken, just as Palestinians in Gaza do on the first day of Ramadan. 

"My son, Muhammad, would never be satisfied without his favourite dish of hummus. Since childhood, and even after he married and had his own children, I always indulged his request, treating him as if he were still my little boy. What will I do this year without him? Without the rest of my loved ones?

"My granddaughter Lana adored the colourful lanterns. My grandson Salem cherished the one shaped like a mosque. His sister Afaf had a special love for katayef pastries. Every year, I made sure they each had what they loved. Now, life feels empty without them. The tranquillity I once found in Ramadan is gone."

In Gaza, lanterns were not just for the children. Adults also took pride in adorning their homes with them—hanging them from windows, placing them in courtyards, lighting them up inside, nurturing the spirit of Ramadan, and crafting joy out of ritual. Yet, this year, even these tiny symbols of celebration have lost their glow.

Fragments of the past

Despite the devastation, some families in Gaza are trying to preserve the cherished rituals of Ramadan. For Zeina Abu Sido, 29, the arrival of Ramadan presents an opportunity—however fragile—to reclaim fragments of the past. Her home in the Sheikh Radwan area of western Gaza was bombed and partially destroyed, yet she is determined to uphold tradition. 

Her balcony is adorned with lanterns and decorations—a quiet act of defiance, defying despair, a gesture of comfort and reassurance after the exhaustion and sorrow of war. "Despite everything, they bring me a fleeting sense of peace," she says. 

"There is nothing quite like the joy I once saw in my children's eyes as they ran to the windows, marvelling at the lanterns twinkling in the night. Even after all that we have endured, these small details offer us a glimmer of hope—a reminder that Ramadan, as we knew it, still lingers in the corners of our lives."

"They were never just decorations. They symbolised a return to joy, an act of resilience in the face of the bloodshed around us. Every lantern we hung on the balcony was a tiny spark of hope piercing through the darkness. 

"I know that this year, Ramadan will be different in every way. It calls upon us to learn how to rebuild—not just our homes but our souls. Not just by arranging decorations, but by confronting our grief and finding a way to live with it." 

The sound of the drum

For Palestinians, the joy of Ramadan is incomplete without the rhythmic drumming of the Musaharati—an age-old tradition dating back to Ibn Jubayr's travels in 1217 AD. This cherished ritual, carefully preserved across generations, has long filled the hearts of both young and old with delight. Yet this year, even this cultural touchstone teeters on the brink of extinction. 

Abu Adel al-Hassi, 49, has been the Musaharati of the now-devastated Jabalia camp for two decades. Each Ramadan, he would walk through the neighbourhood before dawn, beating his drum and calling out in song, waking families for suhoor and bringing a moment of joy to weary souls. This year, he does not know if he can continue the tradition, owing to the weight of war.

"Ramadan this year feels confusing," he says. "I haven't decided whether I can take up my drum and walk the streets again, singing the chants that once signalled the arrival of the blessed month. I used to carry a list of family names and would call out to each: 'Wake up, O sleeper, praise the Creator! Ramadan Kareem!"

This year, he knows that the Musaharati's call will not ring the same. "Most of the houses in Jabalia are rubble. The sound of my drum, once a source of comfort, would only terrify those sleeping in tents. Without walls to absorb its beat, it would echo unsoftened, striking not just the ears but the heart.

"If I were to look at my list of family names now, so many would be missing. Hundreds of people I used to call by name, who answered me in years past. How can I call for one and remain silent for another? How can I pass by the ruins of their homes and pretend nothing has changed? I still cannot believe they are gone."

This year, Ramadan in Gaza feels muted, stripped of its familiar warmth, and buried under the weight of destruction. The sacred month comes shrouded in grief, its rituals disappearing one by one. The air of celebration, the echoes of tradition, the spirit of community – all seem to have faded. 

Yet, even amid the devastation, some refuse to let Ramadan slip away entirely. A lone lantern flickers in the night. A handful of decorations cling shyly to a wall. It is as if these small gestures are resisting the erasure of Ramadan, clinging to a beauty that once was, despite the month now being painted the colour of ashes.