we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
We welcome the festival with sadness, but also with open hearts.
Chocolate candies for Eid in 2023, before the war. Photo: Wesam Thabet
“Do you think the next Eid will be without war? In our home?” my cousin, Shatha, asked tremblingly as tears flowed gently down her cheek.
My sister, Maram, replied while lying on a chair and scrolling through the overflowing news, “It could be, if we are still alive.”
I was trying to occupy myself by taking random photos of cactus, to ignore their conversation. I bit my lower lip to fight back my tears. My heart began racing and I got goosebumps all over my body.
It was 7 a.m., the morning of Eid Al-Fitr, April 10, 2024. I discovered that going to sleep was the only and best escape. Before I slipped into sleep, I thought of what we would be doing now if there were no war.
On normal Eids, I wake up to the smell of the best Arabic coffee, made by my mom, which offers warmth and peace of mind. Then I start organizing different shapes and colors of chocolates in the guest room. I put out the main dessert, maamoul (date-filled butter cookies) which becomes the center of my relatives’ conversation as they argue about who made the best version of this beloved treat.
Maamoul, traditional Palestinian cookies prepared for the 2023 (pre-war) Eid. Photo: Wesam Thabet
My mom always prepares the children’s Eid goodies the night before. In the morning, I hurry up to be the queen of the day by putting on my new dress complete with glamorous accessories. I choose a pretty hairstyle which I change dozens of times to get it just right.
In anticipation of the day, I take care of my skin the month before so it will be glowing and clear on the Eid. Maram and I choose our nail polish, making sure it has a glossy finish. As a final touch, I spray my favorite perfume with its delightful scent.
I quickly leave the room to get ahead of my sister to light the incense and walk through our home, letting its aroma fill every corner. The neighborhood streets are adorned with smiling kids bursting with energy as they run about playing. Their laughter echoes through the streets, bringing a smile to my face.
The tiny girls are dancing joyfully in their flouncy pink dresses, their hair ribbons perfectly matching their outfits. Their biggest fear is to get their new white shoes dusty. Mimicking little ladies, they swing in their hands their bright plastic bags filled with candies, coins, kids’ nail polish, and chocolates.
From every corner, boys appear in bright shirts and pants, mostly in shades of blue. Their voices are ringing out with Takbeerat Al-Eid (phrases praising Allah) with chocolate stuffed in their mouths. Their untied shoelaces drag behind them because tying them can wait and the day is only for running and playing.
Our home is crowded with relatives coming from the north and south of Gaza. The entire day is filled with laughing, hugging, smiling, and taking pictures. That is how I remember the Eid.
Now my mind races to the present. Muslims around the world are preparing themselves to celebrate Eid Al-Fitr on the first of April — except in Gaza.
Here we are busy searching for food and clean water day by day. We are scrambling to stuff our most important things in small bags, so we can carry them and run away.
Mothers will be busy bidding farewell to their newborn babies, searching for the remains of their husbands under the rubble. Fathers will spend their days scavenging for firewood to keep their children warm at night and to cook some beans.
Displacement and escaping death consume most of our thoughts and energy. We don’t have the luxury of being joyful in preparing for Eid celebrations.
If the war continues until that day, we’ll wake up to the explosions of missiles as our alarm clock. There will be no chocolates or candies on the table and no new clothes or shoes to wear, no toys for the kids. Most children’s clothes will be worn and torn, their hair messy, and their feet bare, covered in dust.
Our skin is pale. Our faces express the anxiety and exhaustion of long harsh months. No visiting our relatives who are still alive in the north of Gaza despite the short distance between us since the Gaza Strip is again cut in two by the Israeli army.
The smell of blood and gunpowder will mix with the fresh air to remind us of the ugly reality we could not forget even if we tried. The hospitals will be crowded with martyrs and the injured, and the sirens of ambulances will wail in every street.
Now, at the end of March in 2025, I have the answer to Shatha’s question.
“It is the next Eid, dear. The genocide is still going on and tougher than before. We are still displaced from one place to another day by day. We are waiting for our death while we’re walking, eating, or even sleeping. Young men are shot in front of their family’s eyes. This is our destiny.”
However, my mom’s delicious Arabic coffee will be there to make us nostalgic for the past. She will try her best to bring happiness from nothingness. She’ll prepare some desserts with whatever is available, just like last Eid’s cinnamon rolls.
Children will repeat the Takbeerat in their shaky voices, which will be drowned out by the buzzing of drones. We’ll try to make good memories and live as human beings even in the darkest and worst moments as we face yet another massacre.
We welcome the Eid with open hearts and yet, we can only hope that we will live to experience another Eid with our families, without war.
