First day of Ramadan in Al-Shuja’iyya neighborhood. Photo: Nadera Raied Mushtha

For the second year in a row, Ramadan arrives in Gaza wrapped in sorrow. The city, once alive with the sound of joy and worship, is now drenched in grief. The holy month, which used to bring warmth and celebration, now feels hollow, its traditions shattered, its spirit suffocated.

There are no dazzling lanterns hanging from balconies, no glowing lights decorating the street, no children running joyfully to buy sweets. The mosques that once echoed with the worshippers’ voices now stand in ruins. The bustling markets, which used to overflow with shoppers preparing for Iftar, are either bombed beyond recognition or eerily empty. The air, once filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering stews, now carries only the scents of toxic dust and destruction.

Before the war, Ramadan was rich in traditions and togetherness. My family and l would eagerly anticipate the arrival of the holy month. We would go to the markets, pushing through the lively crowds to buy dates, fresh juices, and nuts. We would choose the best gifts for our loved ones, preparing for the gathering that made Ramadan so special.

Gaza would shine. Homes, balconies, and shopfronts would be adorned with gold lights, glossy lanterns, and banners welcoming the blessed month. The streets would glow under colorful decorations, shimmering like stars against the night sky.

At Iftar, our dining table would be a masterpiece of love and tradition. Plates of musakhan, maftool, maqluba, and molokhia would be laid out, surrounded by bowls of pickles, warm bread, and steaming soups. Family members would sit together, breaking their fast with laughter and stories, sharing both food and gratitude.

After Maghib prayer, we would head to the masjid for Taraweeh. The walk to the masjid was part of the experience — the streets alive with the movement of people, neighbors exchanging Ramadan greetings, children running ahead with their fawanees (lanterns) in hand, singing traditional Ramadan anasheed.

Later in the night, we would visit our relatives, drinking tea, sharing desserts, and sitting together in the warmth of family. The younger children would play “Siva,” spinning fire around them in a mesmerizing dance, their laughter echoing through the alleys.

Before Suhoor, the musaharati would make his rounds, beating his drum through the streets, calling people to wake up and prepare for the next day’s fast. Children would follow him, laughing as they placed coins in his hands, thanking him for his effort.

But this year, everything is different.

Ramadan has come again, but it is unrecognizable. The warmth has vanished. The joy has been stolen. The people who made Ramadan special — our families, our neighbors, our friends — have been murdered.

For the second year, Ramadan in Gaza is not a month of celebration but a month of mourning. Instead of the scent of delicious meals, the air is filled with the dust of bombed buildings. Instead of the sound of prayers and laughter, there is only silence, interrupted by the occasional cry of a grieving mother or the distant echoes of Israeli bombs.

On March 1, 2025, the first day of Ramadan, a humanitarian charity attempted to bring some relief to our shattered neighborhood. They organized a large Iftar gathering, setting up a row of tables and chairs in the middle of the street. Among the rubble, they placed tables where homes once stood, trying to recreate a moment of normalcy amid the devastation.

But when the adhan for Maghrib prayer echoed, signaling the time to break the fast, no one came to sit.

Not because they had food waiting at home, not because they preferred to eat with their families — there were no families left. No neighbors remained. No friends were there to join.

The tables, covered with plates of foot, stood along like a lush island in a sea of devastation. The only color in the landscape was the dishes set for an Iftar that would never be eaten.

Because there was no one left.

On December 2, 2023, a relentless bombardment erased our street from the map. In a single moment, more than 400 souls — families, children, neighbors, and strangers walking by — were killed. Their bodies remain beneath the rubble, buried where they once lived, laughed, and prayed.

The street that once held our memories, our homes, and our joy is now only dust and ash. Its name — Abu Al-Itham — remains, but its people are gone.

Ramadan has returned, but it is not the Ramadan we knew. It is now a month of absence, a month of remembering voices that will never speak again, faces that will never smile again, hands that will never reach out for another Iftar meal.

And as the sun sets over Gaza, there are no lanterns, no laughter, no gathering. Only silence.

A silence heavier than the rubble.

A silence that speaks of loss so deep, no words can truly capture it.