The bridal seat in the wedding hall adapted from a clothing shop. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha

The hall was small, lit up by bright colors. The music was loud. I was sitting on a chair like other guests, waiting for the bride and groom to enter the hall hand in hand. The bride was my older sister. Finally, I could see her in white. She and her groom entered and started dancing. They appeared happy, grateful to have each other. Their mothers’ eyes filled with happy tears.

Our relatives stepped onto the stage to greet my sister, but the gathering felt incomplete. The scene was missing someone valuable. My grandmother, killed in the genocide, had always told my sister that she hoped to see her as a bride, and her absence hurt our hearts. I looked around to find fewer guests than we had invited. Not everyone had been lucky enough to find transportation.

In the rest of the world, marrying means beginning a happy and secure new chapter. For Gazans, every month is a continuation of grief and instability — grief for loved ones taken by the Israeli genocide, and instability created by the demolition of Gaza and the absence of the most basic living conditions.

Suddenly, I smelled something delicious — the smell of knafa, a well-loved Palestinian sweet. The groom had chosen to serve it despite its high price. Gazan people are known for their generosity even during tough times. This is also evident in the tradition of the wedding lunch known as khada, a feast of rice and meat served by the groom’s family after sacrificing a sheep or a calf. This tradition is considered sacred for us as Muslims, because we fill many stomachs and complete righteous deeds.

But there was no such lunch for my sister. Nowadays, to hold such a feast you have to rent a big place and be able to afford the high price. Even if you manage to do that, you cannot be sure how many of those invited will be able to come.

The genocide has ruined our traditions. Before October 7, 2023, holding a wedding involved several steps. The first was to find a suitable hall, and Al-Rashid Street, which overlooked the sea, once featured magnificent wedding halls of different sizes and styles. Couples had many options that suited various budgets. Choosing the wedding clothes was a smooth process. Shops were open, markets were full, and the couple could explore a wide variety of designs. Food was readily available, with multiple choices for whatever the bride and groom planned to serve on their special day.

October 7 turned happiness into grief and peace into chaos. The halls that once illuminated Al-Rashid Street now lie in rubble. After the ceasefire, people tried to adapt. Because no hall was left, some families transformed their homes into makeshift wedding halls, creating spaces where celebrations can still take place. But these alternatives are limited in number and extremely expensive, making them unaffordable for many. Decorations, photography, and electricity are also factors that affect the cost.

My sister’s fiancé searched tirelessly and told us that the cheapest hall available — a small space that used to be a clothing shop — cost around $1,000. He had no choice but to rent it.

Seating in the wedding hall. Photo: Miriam Mushtaha

Even choosing a dress — one of the most joyful parts of wedding preparation — has become a stressful task, as goods coming in are limited and sold at high prices. It took us a week of searching to find a dress for my sister, though she had dreamt of something more beautiful. Because of this situation, many brides now borrow dresses from friends or relatives.

We also struggled with the catering. My sister’s fiancé suggested distributing mini cola cans, but when we discovered that each one cost nearly $3, we abandoned the idea. Even water is expensive; a regular bottle that once cost a single shekel is now triple the price. We had planned to buy sweets and place them in small containers as keepsakes, but we could not find anything affordable or in sufficient number. Eventually we agreed on serving knafa. It was expensive, but, as we say in Arabic: “بدنا نبيض وجهنا”: “We want to honor our guests.”

My sister didn’t want to hold her wedding during the genocide and had waited eagerly for the ceasefire. But even in this so-called ceasefire, nothing feels truly different. People’s wounds have not healed and the atmosphere remains heavy, especially with the constant Israeli violations of the agreement.

Even when couples manage to hold weddings, many challenges await them. Creating a family in Gaza has now become a journey filled with fear — fear of an uncertain future for children who will be born into displacement and insecurity, fear that play will be replaced by survival, classrooms by crowded shelters, and childhood by the daily search for food and water.