May 29, 2024: Children and youth in Gaza cling to whatever reminds them of their childhood, playing volleyball in the yard of their school-turned-shelter. Photo: Samah Zaqout

In Gaza, May has always been a set of obligations dressed up as “seasonal joy.” It’s the month we decide to take out the summer clothes and pack away the winter ones, host a barbecue, plan a chalet vacation, and attend three graduations and five other wedding parties.

School children enjoy their mid-term holiday, playing in the streets while their elders squabble over whether to brew mint or sage tea. It’s neither summer, when we’d have our usual mint cup of tea, nor winter for sage.

May has always given us its first day as a holiday. It’s Labor Day and we all take the day off. Yet, May was not just about the first day. We used to dedicate the whole month to celebrations, outings, and seaside walks. The breeze would be warm, not too cold, not too hot. The sky would be mostly clear. Withered trees started to grow again, and people filled their balconies with little potted plants whose scent would drift through the alleys.

Mother’s Day comes a week later. Bouquets filled every store entrance. At every stall, a small speaker played “Set El Habayeb Ya Habiba,” which can be translated as “The Lady of the Beloved, My Beloved.” Instagram becomes a competition to show your love for your mother.

But just in the blink of an eye, May steals its joy from every Palestinian in Gaza. The joy of May Day becomes a mayday distress signal for survival.

Even this seasonal joy is gone. That noisy May has slipped away and the silence that looms is heavy. Those stalls of flowers and gifts have all been wiped out. No markets in Gaza are still standing except pop-up stalls where young people sell items they’ve received from humanitarian aid. They sell basic supplies like canned food in hopes of earning a bit of money to purchase all the other essentials they lack.

But what is gut-wrenching is that there are no more children to celebrate and no mothers to be celebrated.

Since the start of this war and the ongoing genocide in Gaza, over 17,000 children under age 17 and at least 9,000 women have been killed. Even the remaining children, many who have been injured and even disabled, are heartbroken and have difficulty celebrating their mothers. They quickly became adults and carry responsibilities no child on this earth should carry.

Queues to get bread from the bakery. Photo: Samah Zaqout

I saw an eight-year-old child waiting for hours for Tekkeyh, the charitable lodge, to get the only meal that he and his siblings would have all day. After losing their parents, they’re left with nothing but a tent for shelter. This eight-year-old bears the burden of caring for his younger siblings, becoming both mother and father to them at such a young age. He no longer has the motivation to celebrate anything or anyone.

Most of us no longer remember that May marks the beginning of Spring, Labor Day, World Press Day, and Mother’s Day. We no longer remember to get our summer clothes out; we have lost them under the rubble of our homes. Now we are happy if we get a clothing coupon for aid parcels distributed by humanitarian organizations, typically containing basic items like a pair of pajamas, a cotton dress, or a prayer gown.

The skies are no longer serene or pure. The smoke from air strikes and the constant buzz from the drones overhead disturb the sky’s serenity and ruin its purity.

All the chalets and the vacation resorts lie in ruins, leaving a wasteland that is unrecognizable to citizens of Gaza.

Universities no longer celebrate the graduation of their students. There are no more universities and no more students to celebrate. Over 14.000 students have been killed and 24,000 others have been injured. The rest are left hopeless, having nothing to do except getting water and searching for flour. At least 52,928 Palestinians have been killed in the Gaza Strip while 119,846 have been reported injured.

My sister is an excellent student in the Faculty of Engineering at Al-Azhar University in Gaza. She dreams of her graduation day, the day she would wear her graduation cap and gown, and present her graduation project. But there is no university left in which to present her project, and no graduation gown waiting for her at the university.

In Gaza, all the wedding halls have been silenced. Most have been turned into shelters. Al-Miriland wedding hall was the first place I took shelter with my nine family members when the Israeli occupation ordered Al-Andalus tower to evacuate at 3 a.m. That night, the silent hall seemed to whisper, “It won’t pass peacefully.”

And it didn’t. Since that first night, it’s been almost two years and we’re still counting. Now May comes around for the second time during this war and we still don’t have any special seasonal joy to celebrate or any unique holidays to plan for. We don’t have any special food to share, and we have difficulty even finding either the mint or the sage for tea.

World Press Day has become a day to mourn over the 214  journalists who’ve been killed so far.

Even Labor Day no longer exists, and even if it did, no one would take the day off. The whole nation is inventing new jobs to gain some money, overshadowed by the daily struggle for survival. Some are creating mud ovens for baking. Some, like my uncle, charge people’s phones to earn money. Some women are making food and giving it to their young children to sell.

May 2024: the Mediterranean Sea, Gaza. Photo: Samah Zaqout

The only gift May offers during this war is the beach walk—my mother describes this as the only escape for Gazans. One afternoon, we insisted that my father take us out to the beach just for a short walk and fresh air. The beach was close, only 15 minutes away. When we arrived the beach was full. People were selling snacks made from pasta and flour. Children were splashing in the sea, their laughter echoing like before the war. Thankfully, the day  passed peacefully and we managed the break we had longed for.

The month of May has always fooled us into believing that our life was picture-perfect, like a scene from a cozy film. We were happy to believe in this illusion until now. The genocide has left little for us to hold onto and celebrate.