Burgers that Saeda made to celebrate her sister’s birthday. Photo: Saeda Hamdona

We are a people who enjoy life despite the hardness of reality and the bitterness of existence. “If, one day, a people will to live, then destiny must surely respond,” the poet al-Shabbi once remarked.

On September 4, 2025, I woke up early, my head overflowing with ideas. It was my younger sister’s 19th birthday. I had called cafés and restaurants the previous day to inquire about the cost of a birthday cake, but the prices were totally out of our reach. We’ve become used to that, so I wasn’t surprised. I took a deep breath and focused.

My plan was to bring the little celebration to my parents’ house in Al-Nasser. At home, I had spent the previous evening carefully kneading and shaping bread rolls by hand. I trusted our village baker to bake them in his tiny, ancient oven. The aid that had entered at the Zikim crossing had been stolen along the route and then put up for sale, so we had to buy back what was supposed to help us. I bought canned minced meat and created my own burgers out of that small supply. The outcome was surprisingly tasty, even though I used dry seasonings in place of fresh onion, and tomato paste in place of ketchup. 

I experienced a rush of exhilaration as I made the burgers and arranged them on plates. I watched my sister’s eyes light up with joy as I lit a small candle for her. Her birthday was marked by smiles, laughing, and a sense of community that briefly overcame the lingering effects of loss and conflict. Despite its modesty, the ceremony had great significance.

It provided a little reprieve for my younger siblings from the shock of losing their daily playmate, a close friend. He had suffered a stroke and died unexpectedly at the age of 15. Shells and bullets are no longer necessary for death in Gaza; all that is needed is a weak heart, ill-equipped to handle the demands placed upon it. How unkind is it for a child to grow aged before his time, till his own body fails him? Our children carry the burden of adult grief; they are no longer just kids.

The little festivity went on. We chuckled gently at small jokes and split the burgers, enjoying every bite. Because of our attention to detail, the meat was tender and seasoned, the bread warm and aromatic, and even the tomato paste seemed to have more flavor.

Saeda’s brother bought biscuits for the birthday celebration. Photo: Saeda Hamdona

We had two pancakes apiece and a cup of instant coffee to cap off the day. For us, it was a small dream, a glimmer of warmth in a long, dark nightmare, despite its apparent insignificance. I thought about how Gaza has taught us, its people, to find joy in the little things as we sat together, enjoying coffee and watching the candle flicker. Joy is a silent moment of warmth that collects the pieces of our hearts and gives us the ability to breathe again, even for a short time.

I was overcome with a range of emotions as I gazed at my siblings, whose expressions reflected both sadness and momentary joy. There was a profound gratitude for this little period of calm and normalcy, as well as sorrow for what had been lost—the childhoods stolen, the friends taken too soon, the lives irrevocably changed. In Gaza, we discover how to sculpt joy from the tiniest slivers of hope and make life from the most basic elements. We cling to modest acts of kindness that remind us that life, no matter how fleeting, is worth celebrating.

A cousin made pancakes and bought ice cream to make iced coffee. Photo: Saeda Hamdona

Life endures among broken streets and destroyed structures. Siblings look out for one another, families prepare what little they can, communities share what they have, and children giggle. Every moment of shared joy and every tiny gesture of normalcy are acts of defiance against hopelessness.

I said a silent prayer of thanks as night set over Gaza: for my family’s safety, for our shared laughter, and for the courage to keep going. And I once again understood that, in Gaza, we do more than just survive; we discover ways to live, love, and hope under the silent, flickering light of a candle. Every day, no matter how challenging, presents an opportunity to spread tiny moments of happiness and educate our kids that life is lovely, fleeting, and valuable.