In past Eids, Gazans would flock to the shops at Eid to buy sweets and other treats. Photo: Ahmad Sameh Sbaih

Like many others, my family mourns the loss of a loved one. My uncle, Hani Sbeih, was killed last year while courageously trying to secure aid. Our home that once echoed with laughter during Eid is now a silent witness to his absence.

On past Eid mornings, the smell of warm ma’moul from nearby homes mixed with the distant echo of takbirs and the soft bleating of sheep tied in every yard. My uncle’s voice, deep, calm, and full of cheer would rise above it all—as he called to wake us up, joking that we’d miss the best part of the day if we stayed in bed. He always wore the same crisp white dishdasha—a traditional garment worn by men—freshly ironed, and a faint scent of musk clung to him.

He especially loved Eid Al-Adha and took part in every aspect of it with care. He saw the sacrifice as more than a tradition; it was a responsibility he carried with pride and never approached lightly.

In the days leading up to Eid, he would visit every place he could, comparing prices, asking about feed, checking the weight and health of each sheep until he found the best one, even if it took him days. On the night before Eid, he would finally bring it home and tie it in our backyard, making sure it was fed and comfortable until morning.

After examining many sheep, Uncle Hani would select the best one for Eid. Photo: Ahmad Sameh Sbaih

I always complained to him about bringing home the sheep so late. We barely had any time to play with it or feed it before the sacrifice. He would laugh and say that if he brought it earlier, my cousins and I would get too attached. And he was right. The few times he did bring it early, we ended up naming it, treating it like a pet. On the morning of Eid, we cried like it had been part of the family.

My uncle used to tease me a lot. He was a Barcelona fan, and I supported Real Madrid. We watched football games together all the time. One year, on the second day of Eid when I was 12, there was a Barcelona-Real Madrid match. We watched it with the whole family. My team won.

I could see he was quite frustrated so I ran up behind him and climbed onto his back and burst out laughing. He ended up laughing, too, saying, “You get this one, crybaby.” That was the nickname he had given me because I used to cry whenever my team lost.

After Eid prayers, we would all hurry back to watch the sacrifice. My uncle enjoyed packing up all the meat and giving it away to our relatives and people in need. More than anything, he looked forward to the Eid lunch—a meal full of meat and family.

Now, the backyard is empty. His chair at the table stays unclaimed. And the scent of musk no longer lingers in the hallway.

Tables heavy with food

Eid Al-Adha used to feel like a blessing that wrapped every home in joyfulness. Tables were heavy with food, and the sweet scent of ma’moul and other freshly baked desserts filled every corner across the city.

On the first day of Eid in our house, the serenity of Eid prayers was followed by a lively family breakfast, everyone gathered around one table—parents, siblings, cousins. After breakfast, my father, my older brother, and I would set out to visit our relatives. Gathering around steaming cups of coffee and exchanging stories of the past year while the children ran excitedly between rooms and the elders smiled with quiet affection, we kept our family traditions alive and our hearts connected.

At each home—our grandparents’, our aunts’—we were met with endless hospitality: trays of ma’moul, bowls of chocolates, glasses of juice, plates of nuts, and cups of coffee. Refusing these offerings was never an option.

We’d return home briefly for lunch—always a meat dish on Eid Al-Adha—then head back out to continue our visits. By sunset, all the visits were complete, and we would return home, barely able to walk from everything we had eaten and drunk. After Eid, people would joke around with each other about the weight they had put on during Eid. It was really a time of joy, of giving, of feeling full and content in every way.

This year, empty plates

This year, Eid comes with no feast—no ma’moul on the table, no sizzling meat to share, just empty plates reminding us of what has been lost. Instead of laughter filling the rooms, quiet prayers and hopeful glances replace the joyous celebrations we once knew. The visits to relatives are replaced by phone calls to wish them happy Eid, and pray for their safety through these rough times.

I wait for the day that Eid will return to our land with its joyful atmosphere. We will make new and beautiful memories with our families, while bearing our lost loved ones in our hearts.