The beginning of Ramadan in Al-Nuseirat camp, 2025. Photo: Essra Abo Qamar

After experiencing the horrors of genocide in Gaza for nearly 500 days, we finally reached a ceasefire. With gratitude we welcomed Ramadan, this blessed month, with peace, safety, and a return to normalcy.

Last Ramadan, we were breaking our fast to the sound of explosions, always afraid of losing one another. We lost the spirituality of Ramadan amid the devastation. But this year, we dared to dream of something better, believing that as long as the bombings had stopped, we would be fine.

Since the beginning of Ramadan, though, the Rafah border has been closed, cutting off the entry of food, gas, aid, and essential supplies into Gaza. We had hoped this Ramadan would be different, yet each day of this holy month, we fasted for over 14 hours, only to break our fast with canned food and leftovers. For the whole month, we had no cooking gas, so we prepared our Iftar over a wood fire. If we wanted toast or to make a cup of tea for Suhoor, we had to light a fire at midnight.

Despite these hardships and unbearable living conditions, we consoled each other that at least we were safe. Even if we lacked food and gas, the bombings, explosions, displacement, and genocide had stopped, at least for now. We started to settle, feel stability, and rebuild our lives. The destruction was huge, but we had to adapt.

Katayef, a sweet dessert, being prepared over a wood-burning stove. Photo: Esraa Abo Qamar

Children were excited for Eid Al-Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan. On this day, families dress beautifully, prepare their houses to welcome guests, and exchange Ediyah (gifts). Children wear colorful clothes and gather to play and eat sweets.

As a child, I shared that excitement. It was one of my favorite days of the year. I would lay out my clothes the night before and wake up early in the morning to perform the Eid prayer with my friends. I would hurry home to have my first morning breakfast after a month of fasting. It was always feseekh, a salted fish often cooked on the first day of Eid Al-Fitr. Then I would put on my dress and style my hair, to hang out with my friends, eat ice cream, and play together.

Last Eid — in 2024, under constant attack — we were deprived of our festivities. But this year, after the ceasefire announcement, we allowed ourselves to hope, to dream, to prepare, to celebrate this time.

Stores started to reopen. Families started shopping for Eid, finding special clothes for their children. The streets became vibrant and crowded with people preparing for this joyful time.

An array of candies offered by the newly re-opened shop, Al Hyper Mall, before the end of the ceasefire. Photo: Esraa Abo Qamar

But in an instant, our dreams were shattered, and the glimpse of hope we clung to evaporated.

On March 18, at 2 a.m., we woke to the sound of missiles shaking the house. I leaped from my bed and ran into my parents’ bedroom. My brothers were already there, asking if it was real or were we all in a nightmare.

My little sister Aya asked, “Didn’t the war stop? What was that sound?”

Had the ceasefire had just been violated? Millions of questions jumped to my mind, and I felt a pang in my heart. Ambulance sirens filled the air. I checked my phone, worried for friends and relatives, only to learn bombs were falling everywhere. War had returned to Gaza.

The number of martyrs increased. The safety we had barely embraced vanished, and our world crumbled.

We are so drained. Our energy is consumed. For a brief moment, we had re-entered our lives, rekindled the remains of our education, shelters, dignity, and life. I had tried to pursue my university degree, studying again online. I had strolled the streets I once loved. I had tried to create a life from what was left to us, but now I quit.

I see my mom working hard all the day; all she cares about is feeding us. Her hands have turned gray from cooking on fire, sorrow filling her eyes. I hear her pray to Allah asking to save us for her. She fears losing one of her loved ones or evacuating her home.

Everything is bleak. Everyone has lost their passion to live, fight, and resist.

The Eid Al-Fitr we had expected to welcome gladly now marks another day of grief. Another day we won’t celebrate, enjoy, or cherish as we once did. This is the third Eid to endure gloomily, without our traditions and our happiness that should mark this day. Maybe I have started to forget what being happy means. All I know is that whenever I dare to feel it, Israel steals it.

What are they fighting? They are waging war on ruins, on ghosts of what once was a city. They are threatening remnants of souls. What more is left for them to destroy?