The small Ramadan corner I made in our tent for my little one, Zakaria. Photo: Saeda Hamdona

My child’s first Ramadan came when he was just six months old, and it was the most beautiful. We were still living in our small home in Sheikh Radwan, a suburb of Gaza City; it was filled with Ramadan lights and decorations.

Zakaria had a special lantern that moved and sang a Ramadan song. I would place him in his crib, and he would watch the twinkling lights, kicking his tiny feet in joy as he observed the lights change and flicker. I hoped that those lights and that happiness might be stored in his small memory, to be renewed the following year.

His second Ramadan, at age one and a half, came during a time of war and famine. By then, we were living in Rafah, in a small tent on the edge of a street, in which 11 of us were crowded. He had started crawling, moving from one place to another. I was constantly anxious, afraid he might get burned while we cooked, or get hurt crawling between people’s feet — many times someone accidentally stepped on his tiny hands.

That Ramadan was extremely harsh. There wasn’t enough food; we were always hungry. Yet, Ramadan remained generous in spirit — people shared what little they had, comforted each other, and cared for everyone around them.

This year, in his third Ramadan, Zakaria was two and a half years old. After being uprooted once again, we began the month in a tent in the corner of the street. Later, we moved to a relative’s house in Gaza City, and then again to our current tent in Khan Younis.

We couldn’t even light lanterns easily because conditions were so difficult. Lanterns were hard to find, and at $30 each, they were too expensive. We never had electricity; I lived and still live relying on my phone’s flashlight, and outside the tent in the camp there was only one light bulb.

By then, Zakaria had started speaking and would happily imitate the older children, chanting the adhan, the call to prayer, with them. By then he had already come to know the tastes of fear and anxiety.

I decided to try something different; I made the decision to give Zakaria a memorable Ramadan experience. Since I was unable to purchase a new lantern, I constructed one using the cardboard boxes that came with aid supplies. I made another lantern out of empty cans and lit it with a candle. I cut out crescents and stars from paper and hung them on the outside of the tent.

The author’s lantern made from cardboard encircling an empty can. Photo: Saeda Hamdona

When the children in the camp saw our decorations, they ran home to call their mothers to come see the lanterns. “How did you make this?” asked my neighbors in adjacent tents. “How did you come up with these ideas?”

I sat down with each woman who wanted to create a lantern or a star and explained how we could build ornaments from old boxes and collect metal cans to turn them into lanterns that lit up the camp’s nights. Soon, decorations started appearing on tents all throughout the camp.

The women were laughing for the first time in a long time. Children’s hands that had only ever been used to playing in the dirt or carrying empty buckets to fetch water were now creating beauty with scissors and paper.

The spirit of Ramadan does not require living in a house. As I write these words, lanterns fashioned from used cans and paper stars cover my tent. More lovely than all the decorations and happiness was the sight of the entire camp, adorned by Palestinian hands that created hope out of nothing.

Zakaria asked, “When will we go to Ramadan?” I answered, “Every day, my love, we are there every day.”

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs in a slightly revised format.