We never imagined it would be our last Ramadan together—the last one in our family home before it was destroyed, before war tore us apart.
Four months ago, when the latest round of ceasefire negotiations began, hope filled the hearts of all Gazans. Unlike previous attempts, this round felt different—it carried a rare sense of possibility. The talks dragged on for nearly three months of uncertainty, but in January, a deal was finally signed.
Though I was never fully convinced that calm would truly return, my father’s optimism was unwavering. One day, he called me and said, “We’re going to spend Ramadan with you, Noor.”
His voice trembled with joy, a mix of excitement and disbelief—as if the idea of returning home had become too distant to grasp. His words wrapped around me like warmth on a cold night, offering a comfort I hadn’t felt in a long time. My eyes filled with tears as I imagined the moment we would finally reunite after 15 months of painful separation.
Walking Through Rubble: Gaza’s Endless Struggle for Movement under Siege
For the first time in months, I allowed myself to believe. The thought of being with my family filled me with joy, and I started planning endlessly—imagining our days together, picturing their arrival, and counting down the moments until we were together again.
But now, Ramadan has arrived, and I remain in one world while my family is in another. This is the second Ramadan I spend without them, and the weight of their absence is breaking my heart.
How I Remember Ramadan
Every year, in the days leading up to Ramadan, my mother and I would stroll through Gaza’s lantern-lit streets, shopping for decorations and soaking in the festive atmosphere. My bond with her was more than that of a mother and daughter—we were best friends. I loved doing everything with her just to see her happy, her face always glowing with a smile.
“Noor is always the one who brings the vibes,” she used to say. Every Ramadan, I would buy her a gift, decorate the house with Ramadan symbols, and make sure the spirit of the season filled our home. Even after I got married, I kept those traditions alive—exchanging gifts, adorning our home with festive lights, and visiting my family on the eve of Ramadan to share warm wishes. And, as always, I prayed that by the next Ramadan, we would all be together in good health.
The last Ramadan I spent with my family was in 2023, and it was extraordinary. After nearly six years apart, my oldest sister finally returned to Gaza. I was also a new mother, holding my one-month-old baby in my arms. That Ramadan was special, warm, and filled with gatherings and iftar invitations. We were overjoyed to have my sister and her family with us, experiencing the holy month together for the first time in years.
We were so happy.
We never imagined it would be our last Ramadan together—the last one in our family home before it was destroyed, before war tore us apart.
The only real debate during Ramadan was always about where to have iftar on the first day—with my family or my in-laws. My husband and I had this discussion in the first two years of our marriage, but in the end, he would always win. We would spend the first iftar with his family and the second with mine. Ramadan was never just about fasting; it was about togetherness, about families gathering and opening their homes to one another.
But the third Ramadan after my marriage—last year—was during the war. And now, the fourth one is here, still overshadowed by war, but in a different form and with an even greater distance separating me from my family.
On the first day of Ramadan each year after my marriage, my family used to visit me at night, bringing me all kinds of cheese and snacks they knew I loved. My oldest brother, Mohammed, would stop by briefly just to gift me a Ramadan lantern. Every lantern I own today is from my dear Mohammed. Now, I look at them and cry, longing for just one more moment together.
‘Everything Feels Unreal’ – Gazans Reunite After 15 Months of Genocide, Displacement
The Ache of Absence
Today, my heart aches knowing I am not waiting for my parents to visit me and bless me with their wishes. I will not visit them tomorrow, nor will I stand in the store, overwhelmed with choices, wondering what to buy for my mother and brothers. I will not be invited to iftar in my family’s home, because that home was bombed in March 2023.
Today, I feel alone.
Every day feels incomplete.
We used to welcome Ramadan with happiness and joy. But this year, we don’t feel ready to welcome it at all. “It doesn’t even feel like Ramadan,” is the sentence I have heard over and over again these past few days.
Mothers are mourning their martyred children, sons are longing for their lost parents, and families are grieving over their shattered homes. We have not yet recovered. Our hearts are broken from separation, our souls are fragile, and our bodies are exhausted.
There is an empty place at every food gathering, an absence at every suhoor, a silence at every iftar. The familiar warmth of togetherness has been replaced with an aching void.
Ramadan has arrived, but for so many of us, the light it once carried feels dim.
(The Palestine Chronicle)
– Noor Alyacoubi is a Gaza-based writer. She studied English language and literature at al-Azhar university in Gaza City. She is part of the Gaza-based writers’ collective We Are Not Numbers. She contributed this article to The Palestine Chronicle.
(Except for the headline, this story has not been edited by PostX News and is published from a syndicated feed.)
