Eid in Gaza After the Genocide

For many Palestinians in Gaza, Eid has become a day of mixed emotions — faith and grief existing side by side.

I still remember the Eids of my childhood.

In those days, the last nights of Ramadan were filled with anticipation. As children, we waited eagerly for the announcement of Eid from the mosque loudspeakers confirming the holiday’s arrival. When the news came, our neighborhood in the refugee camp seemed to wake up all at once.

In the days preceeding Eid, shops would display colorful toys and piles of sweets. Children proudly wore their new clothes. The narrow alleys of the camp filled with laughter as families visited one another throughout the day.

For us children, the most exciting moment was receiving Eidiyya, pocket money. We would gather around our parents and relatives, stretching out our hands with shy smiles as they handed us small banknotes. It never mattered how much money it was; it felt like a treasure.

Within minutes we would run to the nearest shop, eager to buy toys and candies.

Eid also meant family. After the morning prayer, we would gather for breakfast before piling into cars to visit relatives across Gaza. Every stop meant another warm welcome, another plate of sweets, another story shared over tea.

In the days before Eid, my Aunt Ghalia — who spent decades working as a teacher with UNRWA — would gather the children in our neighborhood to clean the main alleys of the refugee camp. We swept the dust, sprinkled water on the ground, and sometimes hung balloons or colorful decorations across the streets.

For us children, those preparations felt magical. We believed we were helping bring Eid to life.

For a brief moment, Gaza felt like a place where children could simply be children.

But slowly, over the years, that feeling began to fade.

Israel’s bombing campaigns came and went over the last two decades. The siege tightened. Families buried loved ones. And as time wore on, Eid changed.

What was once a day of celebration became, for many families, a day of remembrance.

For people in Gaza this year, Eid included visits to homes that once stood, visits to the graves of loved ones.

This year, Eid felt unbearably quiet and suffocating.

The streets were still full of people greeting one another, but for each one of us, someone was missing. No more Eid cookies, no more rascal children playing in Gaza, because they are not allowed to live.

I thought I had already experienced some of the hardest Eids of my life in Gaza prior to 2023, but the Gaza of today has endured something far worse.

After two years of the Israeli genocide in Gaza, entire cities and towns have been reduced to rubble. Buildings that once held families, memories, and laughter were turned into piles of concrete and dust. Hundreds of thousands of people remain displaced, living in tents or crowded shelters.

This year, Eid arrived in a place that many Gazans barely recognize as their home.

During Ramadan, many families struggled simply to find enough food to break their fast. Markets were nearly empty, supplies were limited, and humanitarian aid arrived slowly and unpredictably.

In the past, parents would spend the last days of Ramadan buying clothes and sweets for their children. Today, many parents struggle to provide even the most basic necessities.

Children who once waited excitedly for Eid, woke up in tents pitched between destroyed buildings. Some have lost parents, siblings, or friends. Others carry memories of nights filled with explosions and fear.

Their understanding of Eid has changed too soon.

For many parents, now the pain of Eid is trying to create happiness for their children with almost nothing.

Some families shared a meal as their Eid treat. Others gathered children to tell stories or sing songs, trying to recreate a celebration out of memory alone. These gestures that seem small carry enormous emotional weight.

The streets that were once filled with children showing off their new clothes, held rows of tents this Eid. Markets that used to overflow with sweets struggled to reopen. Electricity remained scarce, and clean water was still difficult to find.

And yet, somehow, Gaza continued to hold onto the spirit of Eid.

On the morning of Eid, people gathered for prayer whenever they could — even if the mosques around them had been destroyed. Families greeted each other with embraces and the familiar words: Eid Mubarak.

Children still played, even among the ruins.

These moments may be fragile, but they matter. They reflect the quiet resilience of a people who refuse to let grief erase their humanity.

Many families have empty places at their tables where loved ones once sat. Thousands of new graves exist across the Strip. Visiting cemeteries has become an unavoidable part of the holiday. For children growing up here, Eid is no longer only about sweets and gifts. It is also about remembering those who are no longer there.

And yet, even in this pain, hope refused to disappear.

Parents still promised their children that the next Eid will be better. Communities shared whatever little they had, determined not to let the holiday disappear entirely.

Eid is not only a celebration — it is a reminder that hardship will not last forever.

For Palestinians in Gaza, the dream remains simple: that one day Eid will once again look like the celebrations of our childhood. Streets filled with laughter. Families visiting one another without fear. Children worrying about toys and sweets instead of genocide.

Until then, Gaza will continue to celebrate Eid in its own way — holding onto memories, comforting one another, and refusing to surrender hope. Even in the darkest moments, the spirit of Eid survives.

On the third day of Eid, an Israeli airstrike targeting a police car and another targeting an apartment above a popular restaurant in Gaza city broke the silence of Eid one more time.