Our mosques have been destroyed, our hearts broken, our minds tired, and our people are being killed. In Gaza, there is nothing to celebrate this Ramadan. Everything and everyone around us is devastated.
Last year — and every year before October 7 — Gaza's streets used to exude joy as Gazans welcomed in the Muslim holy month. Balconies beamed with Ramadan lights, children played outside, and families hugged. The scent of dates, nuts, and fruit filled the market; an atmosphere that revived the spirit and connected the heart.
That was when Gaza felt like home. Now, it's filled with darkness.
Israel's monstrous war on Gaza has spared no one. More than 30,000 have been killed and over 70,000 have suffered life-changing injuries. Women and children have been most affected by Israel's indiscriminate assault.
Our homes are no more. More than 70% of all housing units in Gaza have been partially or entirely destroyed, leaving around two million people displaced in the so-called "safe zones" of the south.
Schools, hospitals, mosques, universities, stadiums, and infrastructure have all been targeted by relentless Israeli attacks. Even animals haven't been spared; video clips have emerged of donkeys and sheep being shot by Israeli snipers.
With no ceasefire, Israel will continue to kill Palestinians in Gaza. The death toll will rise, more devastation will be wrecked, and the streets will cry out in pain.
Ramadan without food, shelter, life
"I am not at home. My family has nothing for suhoor and iftar. I miss everything, from the Ramadan lights to foods like samosa and qatayef. I feel sick. This year, nothing makes it Ramadan. It's too depressing," Mohammed Jebril, father of four, told The New Arab.
Mohammed and his family are now sheltering in Deir al-Balah after being forcibly displaced several times. In Deir al-Balah, he's seen nothing but suffering. "Women constantly wail over the bodies of their children, men sob at the loss of their families, and children cry over the extreme levels of hunger. Famine has forced us to fast all day. It's simply unbearable.
"I pray for this brutal war to end so that our lives can return to normality," Mohammed sighed.
Sameer Naeem is a father of six and was displaced from the Karama neighbourhood in the north of Gaza. He's now sheltering with his family in Deir al-Balah. "This Ramadan, the pain lies in being unable to afford or acquire food for my family. I'm a victim of a war I don't have anything to do with. I'm being punished for nothing.
"While Muslims around the world celebrate the beginning of Ramadan, we're traumatised and cursed. However, despite all the pain and suffering, we're trying to create a feeling of happiness out of nothing," Sameer lamented.
"We used to spend hours reciting the Quran at the mosque, attending Quran and Sunnah sessions, and distributing dates and water to our communities before sunset. All of that was last year. How can it be Ramadan if you can't walk to the mosque at night and stand in the front row for Taraweeh?
"This year Ramadan is distressing and bloody, a symptom of Israel's brutal assault. We have nothing. The most we can try to do is to create our own Ramadan, hoping we survive and live at home next year," Sameer said, choking up.
Palestinian women 'bear the brunt'
Mothers, once the soul of Ramadan, now suffer from life-long trauma and mental illnesses. 9,000 mothers have been killed by Israeli assault, depriving thousands of families of maternal affection. This Ramadan will be harsh on everyone in Gaza, but Palestinian women in Gaza will bear the brunt of the suffering.
Kholoud Al-Ramlaw, a mother of a newborn baby and three children, told The New Arab, "I've been displaced in Deir al-Balah for over six months after leaving my house in the north of Gaza. I never thought it would last this long. It's heartbreaking."
"I've lost tens of my cousins. My newborn baby is suffering from starvation in his first days on earth. He is surrounded by war. How can I be in good spirits throughout Ramadan? I am breastfeeding, and Ramadan will affect my health given the current conditions. Instead of using my gas stove and kitchen to make suhoor and iftar for my family, I will have to get up hours before the dawn prayer to make a woodfire and cook. It's so exhausting."
Abubaker Abed is a Palestinian journalist, writer, and translator from Deir al-Balah Refugee Camp in Gaza, interested in sports and languages.
Follow him on Twitter/X: @AbubakerAbedW and Linkedin