A warehouse prepared for a wartime wedding in the family of the writer. Photo: Ahmed Sameh Sbaih  

For more than a year and a half, war has stolen the future from Gaza’s youth. Days blur into nights with no sense of direction or promise of progress. There is no moving forward, only an exhausting cycle of grief and uncertainty.

These are the years meant for becoming: for young people to be finishing degrees, starting jobs, getting married, and dancing at their own weddings. Instead, they carry water jugs, risk being crushed while trying to secure aid for their families, start cooking fires with thick, choking smoke that clings to their lungs, scroll through death lists, and search the ruins of homes that once held their laughter.

Despite these struggles, some young couples in Gaza have gotten engaged and even married during the war. They don’t wait for the promise of peace that may never come; instead, they claim their right to joy in the middle of chaos, refusing to let the unknown delay their dreams.

Small sparks of joy

For many women in Gaza, a wedding has always been more than just a party. Since childhood, when they attended weddings with their mothers, they’ve imagined their own: the dress, the music, the joy of being surrounded by those who love them. But more than the decorations or the wedding, it’s the feeling they hold on to—the rare chance to be the center of warmth and celebration in a life often defined by survival.

As for many young men, the wedding is a joyful gathering with their loved ones. They often look forward most to the pre-wedding celebration with friends, a night of music, food, and shared excitement before stepping into a new life.

But now, those dreams are forced to shrink. There are no grand halls, beautiful dresses, or nights safe enough for dancing and laughing.

Couples have had to give up all these joyous events. And even if the war were to end tomorrow, it would take a long time before Gaza could host wedding celebrations as it once did.

The weddings that young people dreamed of live on as fantasy, but reality demands something smaller and quieter. The celebrations are no longer held in big halls. The families of the couples usually host ceremonies in homes or makeshift tents. They invite only family and their closest friends.

There is no access to beauty salons or tailoring shops, and the bride often looks no different than she would on any ordinary day.

Some families have chosen not to hold any celebration at all, out of mourning for lost loved ones or in respect for the lives taken daily in the ongoing violence. Others, however, insist on preserving even a small spark of joy—believing that, in a place so full of grief, newlyweds deserve at least one moment untouched by sorrow.

Ziad is forced to wait

Before the war, life had just started to take shape for a relative of mine, Ziad Sbaih. He landed a job as an accountant at a local café shortly after graduating, and after a year of steady work, he began saving and dreaming about the future.

He had planned to get engaged back in 2023, but once the war began, all his savings vanished, spent on helping his family survive day by day without any source of income.

Like many others, he postponed everything in hopes for peace that never came.

Desperate to earn something, Ziad set up a small street stall. He worked tirelessly for over a year, yet nothing felt like progress. Then, in January 2025, with the ceasefire, a small shift in the air gave people hope that the worst might be ending. Ziad allowed himself to dream again.

He figured that his work in the stall would suffice until the war was completely over, at which point business as usual would return and he could get a job as an accountant again. He got engaged at the beginning of March, holding on to the promise of a new chapter.

But just a week later, the war returned, ruining his plans once more. He now waits for the war to be over to get married and to figure out where they will live.

Ziad doesn’t regret getting engaged, saying it was a step toward his future he had to take, despite the harsh circumstances.

Mohammad chooses to go ahead

One of the young men who has chosen to move forward with their wedding is Mohammad Gefari. He and I have a mutual friend; he is a 24-year-old nurse who has been working for the past three years in the infant care unit at Al-Sahaba Medical Complex.

Before the war began, Mohammad was slowly and steadily building his future. He had begun preparing to get married, constructing a modest apartment on the top floor of his family’s building, hoping it would be a quiet place for a new beginning.

But when the war broke out, everything paused. For five months, Mohammad was unsure whether his dreams would survive the destruction. Then, despite the ongoing violence, he made a decision: Life couldn’t wait. He got engaged.

In many ways, Mohammad is one of the lucky ones. His family’s building is still standing, and—as of this writing—the apartment he built remained untouched by the bombs. But even so, getting married in wartime isn’t easy. Prices have soared beyond imagination. Furnishing the small apartment—installing basic electricity and a sewage system, and adding only the most basic, used furniture—cost Mohammad around $20,000.

Also, the man in Gaza has to present a dowry for the bride. The dowry—traditionally including a ring, a sum of money for the bride to buy clothes and essentials, and other symbolic gestures—remains a cultural expectation.

For a young nurse living through war, these costs are staggering. Mohammad had spent most of his savings by the time he got engaged—everything he had went toward supporting his family during the early months of the war. To cover the dowry and prepare the apartment, he borrowed money from relatives and friends, taking on a debt he knows will take years to repay.

Yet despite the burden, Mohammad still managed to celebrate his marriage—and that, he says, made it all worth it. Mohammad’s bride celebrated their wedding with a small gathering in her family’s home. There was quiet music, a circle of close relatives, and just enough joy to remind them it was still a wedding.

As  for Mohammad, his friends held a modest “groom shower”—a local tradition where the groom’s friends gather to help him get ready. They played music, danced, and laughed as he got his hair cut, took a shower, and finally put on his suit.

It’s not the wedding he once imagined. There was no grand celebration. No big venue. But for Mohammad and his bride, having a roof over their heads and a room of their own is enough, for now. In a time when everything can be lost in a second, even the smallest home for this newly married couple is a victory.