we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Most years, our holy month has been marked by tragedy, yet I am striving this year to experience it with joy, not fear.
Taqwa’s desk, decorated for Ramadan so that she can recall happy memories from previous years. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
As Ramadan approaches every year, I feel a deep fear in my heart. I’m not afraid of fasting or being tired, but something much heavier — my fear is because of the war, the loss, and the pain.
Ramadan used to be a time of peace. Now it has become connected to explosions, airplanes, and the stories of martyrs. Now it feels as though war and Ramadan have always been linked, as if it’s written in our fate that we have to go through the hardest times during the holiest month.
Most of our Ramadans have been spent under the horrors of war. In 2008, Ramadan came with unbearable suffering, yet we held onto our traditions despite the fear. The same happened in 2014 when war darkened the mosques and turned our iftar meals into moments of worry. It was no different in 2021 and 2023 — most every Ramadan we lived was marked by tragedy. History will remember that our lives were nothing but a series of endless wars.
But this year feels different. We are in a ceasefire; should I allow myself to hope? Should I believe things can get better? Or is the ceasefire just a dream that might dissolve at any time? I want this calm to last. I want a lasting ceasefire so that — just once, after all these years — I can experience Ramadan without fear.
In Gaza, Ramadan is more than just a month — it’s a time when everyone comes together to live it as one. The streets come alive with vibrant decorations, with colorful lights, banners, and lanterns hanging from every corner. Shops are filled with special treats, including sweet pastries, fresh dates, savory snacks, and qatayef — a beloved dessert stuffed with nuts or cream, made especially for the holy month. The air is filled with the delicious aroma of food being prepared, and families gather in the evenings to share meals, strengthening the bonds of unity and tradition.
Qatayef, a favorite Ramadan treat that Taqwa’s family shares together. Photo: Tasneem Ahmed Al-Wawi
How does life continue like this despite everything? How do we keep going, even when surrounded by pain? Maybe it’s faith, maybe stubbornness, or maybe it’s hope — hope is the one thing we have no choice but to hold onto.
Ramadan is the month closest to my heart. It’s when my soul starts to heal, when the pain from the days before begins to fade. Every year, it gives us a chance to start afresh, to cleanse our hearts from all the grieving weight they carry. As always, my father prepares for Ramadan in his own way. He gathers everything we’ll need for the month, and we sit together, opening the bags of food, and organizing them in the kitchen. This small ritual feels like the official start of Ramadan.
One of my favorite memories of Ramadan is Taraweeh prayer. We used to go to Al-Jihad Mosque or Omar bin Al-Abdul Aziz Mosque. I loved bin Al-Abdul Aziz Mosque the most. There was an imam there, Sheikh Mohammed Al-Sheikh, whose voice was the most beautiful I had ever heard. Every letter he recited touched my heart, and I prayed behind him with all my devotion. But this year, his voice was silent. Sheikh Mohammed Al-Sheikh was martyred in this war in 2023. No one can replace him. My sisters and I used to talk about how perfect his recitation was. Now his voice is just a memory.
I remember the Ramadan before the 2023 war, when my father decided to make the house more cheerful with colorful strings of lights. My father and my brothers hung them together at the entrance. Every night I would watch their soft light shining on the walls. It felt as though Ramadan wouldn’t be complete without them. They were a symbol of life, of the small joys we try to hold onto.
Lights at the entrance of Tacqwa’s home in a Ramadan previous to the 2023 war. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
That year Ramadan was different. It was my final year in high school (Tawjihi), and even though I had so much homework to do, I didn’t want to let the pressure of reviewing all my study materials steal the joy of Ramadan. I wanted to feel as though I was truly living Ramadan, despite everything. I put a small decoration on my desk, and made sure I took time to worship. I created my own sacred space for Ramadan.
Now I feel that girl is gone. This year as Ramadan approached, I felt I was still stuck in October 7, 2023, as if time stopped that day. I didn’t feel the excitement. I felt like a stranger to myself.
When as I was scrolling through WhatsApp, I saw a message in our group chat saying, “Our Joy Is in Our Gatherings,” announcing that Ramadan would start on March 1, 2025 — Ramadan was that close — I didn’t feel it. I wasn’t excited. Why does fear always overshadow the joy? I decided not to let this feeling take over. This month has always meant so much to me, and I wasn’t going to let grief take it away. I wouldn’t let pain steal the spiritual side of this month. I wouldn’t let war take everything from me.
Yes, this Ramadan was different. It was sad, but it was not to be just another month of suffering. It was a month of resistance — resisting sorrow, resisting despair, and resisting the war that tries to steal our souls. I fought my sadness and held onto the spirit of Ramadan, because Allah says, “And whoever honors the symbols of Allah — indeed, it is from the piety of hearts” [Al-Hajj: 32]. Honoring these times is not just about rituals, but about keeping hope alive and keeping the light burning in the darkest moments.
A Ramadan lantern, offering light. Photo: Tasneem Ahmed Al-Wawi
Ramadan has never been just about fasting. It’s a time of peace and comfort, a time to be with family, and a reminder that life goes on when we hear the call to prayer. Taraweeh prayers bring peace to our weary hearts, and the recitation of the Qur’an and our supplications are our way of connecting with Allah. Even though our lives have changed and some of our loved ones are no longer with us, I did not want to let this month lose its meaning. I prayed for the martyrs with every prostration, and I felt their presence in every moment of faith. I will carry their memories with me for the rest of my life. This world is temporary, and everything fades. But it’s a place where we gather with those we love before life takes us in different directions.
I always trust in Allah, knowing He will reward us for the trials we’ve faced. One day, we will be reunited with those we’ve lost in the highest place of Paradise, where there is no war, no fear, no pain, no fatigue, and no suffering — only light, mercy, and peace.
