How we used to prepare our tables for Eid before the genocide. Photo: Nour Murtaja

Eid Al-Adha marks the tenth day of Dhul-Hijjah, a sacred time for Muslims around the world. The nine previous days are usually filled with worship, prayer, and fasting. People seek to grow closer to Allah during this time and fast especially on the day of Arafa.

But in Gaza last month, Eid Al-Adha was only a shadow of what it used to be.

Food has become a luxury and many were simply unable to fast. We struggled to keep the spiritual tradition of fasting alive, but the weakness and dizziness that came from hunger made it nearly impossible. There was nothing to eat, no dates and milk, or juice. The fresh meat or tender chicken served atop elaborate dishes of rice and vegetables were faded memories. This time around, we had nothing. Even flour was unavailable. Our bodies were tired, and our minds even more so. The act of fasting became hard and living was even harder.

Eid Al-Adha is supposed to be a celebration. The word “Eid” means “festival” or “joy.” It is meant to be a reward after these communal days of worship. It is a time to be happy, to gather with your loved ones, and to share blessings. Children usually dress in new and colorful clothes, visit family, and enjoy the sugared splendor of homemade pastries. There are games and activities, laughter, and moments of connection with family and friends.

Eid Al-Adha is especially known for the tradition of sacrifice. Families slaughter sheep or cows, and share the meat with their neighbors and those in need. For almost a month after the Eid, people cook meat and enjoy meals together in what is usually a time of abundance and generosity.

My family used to participate in Audhia, sacrificing a sheep or two. We would awaken to the smell of sizzling fat emanating from the pan of kebda in the oven while my mother commandeered kitchen duties. I would spend the morning getting prepared and trying on new outfits bought especially for this special day. My grandmother would invite us each Eid for grand feasts of maftoul with fresh meat to share with our extended family. Children and adults shared the table and engaged in deep but animated discussions.

A plate piled high with kaak from a previous Eid. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha

But in Gaza, for the fourth Eid — neither for Eid Al-Fitr or Eid Al-Adha of 2024 or 2025 — there was nothing to celebrate. There was no joy, no meat, no snacks, not even a home. My grandmother’s house which once united us, was reduced to rubble and each branch of the family was now scattered and separated by destruction and danger, some in precarious tents and others in the skeletal walls of their homes.

Eid mornings now smell of gunpowder and chemicals from explosions. Death fills the air instead of the hustle and bustle of a once-vibrant city.  Hunger prevails in every family, in every home, and on every street.

The bakeries and the pastry shops were barren without a loaf of bread to sell. The streets were eerily quiet, pierced only by the sound of children pleading for food.

As I walked through the streets of Gaza this Eid, I saw a ghost town. The usual elation of children in colorful clothes flying their balloons was a long-lost memory. Many shop fronts were shattered or abandoned, and those still standing had nothing to offer but empty shelves. The buzzing energy of markets, once alive with spices and sweets, was replaced with the shadows of starvation. The call to Eid prayer rang through damaged minarets and echoed through empty spaces that should have teemed with families. People passed each other somberly with hardly a nod, perhaps with a labored smile but often with no expression at all. In every face was a longing not just for food or safety, but for the simple joy of experiencing a normal life again, one that has long been denied to us.

My little cousins asked why we were not visiting our grandmother and why they were not given new clothes or their eidiya (a small amount of money usually given to children on Eid). They asked for our grandmother’s mouth-watering mamoul and kaak as their bodies craved sweet and savory treats.

This Eid came and went without meaning, not because our faith has gone but because our circumstances rendered joy impossible.

A friend in Egypt slaughtered a sheep on our behalf for this year’s ritual sacrifice for Eid Al-Adha. Photo provided by Esraa Abo Qamar

But despite everything we are going through, one tradition survived: the udhiyah, the ritual sacrifice. For my father, this was the most important part of Eid Al-Adha. No matter how hard the situation was, he insisted on fulfilling this act of worship and earning its reward. This year would be no different.

We asked a friend abroad to arrange for a sheep to be slaughtered on our behalf. We neither saw the sheep nor ate of it but we were able to honor this sacred ritual from a distance if only symbolically and it steeled our connection to Eid and our faith.

And we continue to hold on to the memory of better days and to the hope that one day, Eid in Gaza will return not just as a date on the calendar, but as an unwavering moment of joy, sharing, and peace.