One moment my six-year-old Lama is content, pretending a structure she has built by stacking pebbles and rocks in the backyard of our partially destroyed home in Khan Younis is a proper house she has made for us to spend Eid al-Fitr in.
She proudly points out where each of the rooms would be and where the little frills and details we’ve lost – and that she misses – might have been in that fragile structure, which is propped up by wooden planks and covered with a piece of cloth. In that instant, the imaginary setup is enough to spark her innocent jubilation over Eid, the festival that began on 30 March marking the end of Ramadan.
The next moment, she refuses to let go of her right to be gifted a new dress – and for her three-year-old brother Omran to get a new shirt and pants. Gifting new clothing is an Eid tradition.
We tried to offer imaginary solutions – her favourite approach to handling crises like wars – to resolve her tantrum. We also offered alternatives – a dress from the bags we’ve packed with the few remaining belongings we have, and which we’ve kept ready in case we’re ordered to leave at a moment’s notice. But neither suggestion convinces her.
We explain that we need to save every shekel in case we’re displaced again from the battered home we only recently returned to, that it’s too risky to walk the two kilometres to the market, and that we could be bombed on the way.
“Would it be better to die a happy child in a new dress, or die a miserable one dreaming of a dress?” she responds defiantly, challenging our logic, while dragging Omran by the hand as she follows behind her mother, who tries to go about house chores without tripping over the destruction.
To the world watching this unfathomable horror unfold in Gaza: which of Lama’s options would you choose? We let her win this one, because she, her siblings, and all of Gaza’s children have already lost too many battles in their short lives.
Not the same war
Eid al-Fitr is a time for children. Ramadan, although the fasting and spirituality are only for adults, is also a time for children. Normally, there would be lights, street decorations, family visits, food, drinks, song, and happiness. Normally, it would be a 30-day Christmas, followed by three more days of celebration for Eid.
But, this year, there was no joy in Gaza.
Since the first day of Ramadan on 1 March, not a single speck of flour has entered Gaza. Israel has cut off all humanitarian aid, using it as political leverage and putting the lives of 2.1 million Gazans at stake.
This blockade is nothing new, of course. Between 9 and 21 October 2023, absolutely no humanitarian aid was coming into Gaza. After that, for over a year, only a trickle of the essentials we needed was allowed in, until the ceasefire began in January this year.
We have realised that this isn’t a fleeting war but a life-long struggle. And this knowledge wears us down – to realise there is no end in sight is exhausting.
But we are no longer the same people that lived through that deprivation, and this war is not the same war. This is no longer about returning Hamas-held hostages or eliminating Hamas altogether.
So much has changed in the past few months. We’re more worn out. We’re more hopeless. We’ve run out of ideas and hacks on how to survive. And the psychological pressure – believe it or not – has multiplied.
Being displaced amidst airstrikes that could kill you at any moment, while holding onto the hope of making it out alive and returning home when it is all over, is one thing. But enduring displacement when your options have been narrowed down to death or exile is something else entirely. We have realised that this isn’t a fleeting war but a life-long struggle. And this knowledge wears us down – to realise there is no end in sight is exhausting.
Starting on 19 January, when we were given a brief respite of 42 days to return to our homes, some of us – including myself – got carried away and began trying to fix what we could of our wrecked houses. But it’s become clear that the ultimate goal is to expel us all. Not to al-Mawasi or Deir al-Balah, but anywhere far outside of Gaza. In fact, Israel is setting up an entire government agency to make sure this happens.
Telling Gaza’s story
Last Eid al-Fitr, several months into the war, we baked cookies, following a long-held tradition passed down through generations and observed by Muslims across the Arab world. We didn’t this year – not only because food supplies are scarce and exorbitantly expensive – if they can be found at all – but because we no longer have the energy or the heart to pretend there is joy.
As my wife puts it: This Eid, it feels like all the debris and rubble of Gaza is weighing down on our hearts.
More than 1,000 people have been killed since Israel resumed its airstrikes and ground operations on 18 March across the enclave. Over 100,000 more have been forced into displacement again, weeks after they returned to their homes and pretended the war was over.
Now, we know where all this is leading, and we’re just waiting to see which of the two options we’ll be served: death, or “voluntary displacement”.
No family gatherings are planned for this Eid either. Unlike previous ones, we’re now scattered.
For much of the war, my siblings, their families, my parents, and my own family stayed close together – first in Khan Younis and then in tents in al-Mawasi. But since the ceasefire, some of my brothers and sisters have remained in al-Mawasi because their homes were completely demolished, while my parents and I returned to Khan Younis.
I’ve exhausted every angle to show the world how the genocide is affecting my people.
It’s too dangerous to travel to al-Mawasi now because it’s being targeted. It’s too dangerous to stay here because Khan Younis is also being targeted.
Safety has long since been lost in Gaza.
Shelters in schools, mosques, and hospitals are overcrowded once again, with limited access to clean water, food, and electricity. The UN’s agency for Palestine refugees, UNRWA, has described the situation as “beyond tragic”, with aid workers struggling to reach those in desperate need amid continuous airstrikes. Aid workers themselves are being killed.
And I’ve run out of ways, as a journalist, to tell Gaza’s story.
I’ve exhausted every angle to show the world how the genocide is affecting my people. I had written about ice cream vendors defying the power cuts that have crippled us for 16 months to offer children something they love. I’ve written about the last florist standing in Gaza, the ruins of what was once a thriving flower industry supplying Europe’s markets.
I’ve written about displaced people coming together to sing songs to cope with their suffering, about olive trees still standing tall despite ruined harvests, about markets for songbirds bought by people desperate to drown out the constant buzzing of drones. I even completed a doctorate degree with distinction from my tent in al-Mawasi, determined to defy the war and everything it had imposed on us.
But now, I’m out of ways to convey my people’s misery. One of my editors tells me my voice isn’t the same anymore – it’s sadder. Because I’ve stopped pretending.
Children and defiance
In our home, I try to maintain a shred of normalcy for my five children, of whom Lama and Omran are the youngest. I fix what I can, putting up barriers to replace shattered windows, building walls from salvaged nylon and pieces of fabric to protect them from the elements and give them some privacy. We use our imagination – like Lama does – to pretend that it’s fine to live like this.
Lama and Omran are overjoyed with their new outfits, excited to wear them for Eid, even if it’s only in our debris-covered backyard. But in my mind, their happiness is tangled with my fear: Will they live long enough to wear them?
Lama’s innocent defiance – her insistence on clinging to some fragment of childhood – is both heartbreaking and emblematic of Gaza’s children, who are growing up amid relentless trauma. To them, talk of death is more normal than a doll or a toy dinosaur.
This Eid is one more thing our children have been denied. And while we, as adults, have given up the fight, it’s in our children’s resilience – in Lama’s playful house of stones and cloth, in her determination to wear her new dress despite the danger – that we find a reason to keep going.
This piece was published in collaboration with Egab. Edited by Dahlia Kholaif and Eric Reidy.
