This post is also available in: Français (French) العربية (Arabic)
Find all of Rola’s stories here.
The Mufti of the Palestinian territories has confirmed the sighting of the crescent moon, marking the beginning of Eid in Palestine. But in Gaza, no one has seen the crescent of a ceasefire.
This year, residents weren’t awaiting Eid with the usual joy. Instead, they longed for news of calm, of a truce—more than they hoped for holiday sweets or new clothes.
“How can we celebrate Eid,” they asked over and over, “when we’re never safe from the tricks and treachery of the occupier?”
Israel does not hesitate to strike civilians—even during their most sacred celebrations.
A Third Eid Under Genocide
This marks the third consecutive Eid that Gaza has lived under the spectre of genocide.
The previous two were drenched in blood, marked by mourning and tears.
Hardly had the month of Ramadan ended—this year coinciding with the end of March—when the Ministry of Health reported the arrival of dozens of casualties at hospitals, following Israeli airstrikes across different areas of the Gaza Strip.
In the Rimal neighbourhood, in the heart of Gaza City, residents ventured out in droves, trying to recapture a fragment of festivity among the wreckage of shops and crumbling sidewalks.
But soon, the Israeli air force bombed an agricultural zone near the Ministry of POW’s, not far from the crowded gathering.
The blast sent a collective shiver through the street. Panic took over.
Minutes later, another airstrike hit a nearby tent sheltering displaced families, erected on the grounds of the Social Security Center in western Gaza. Three women were killed on the spot.
This Eid, I tried to remain true to that belief. I wanted to give my children a taste of joy, even amid the horror, even as our celebrations had been put on hold for over a year and a half.
A Mother's Eye for Joy, Even Amid War
Before October 7th, I used to believe—firmly—that happiness is a choice.
I approached family occasions and social gatherings with this mindset, determined to make the best of what we had.
This Eid, I tried to remain true to that belief. I wanted to give my children a taste of joy, even amid the horror, even as our celebrations had been put on hold for over a year and a half.
I went out several times to buy them new clothes from the few shops still standing. I hoped they could once again enjoy the little rituals that used to bring Eid to life.
Those who know me understand how particular I am about the details: the way things look, matching colors, polished shoes—especially for Eid.
I did everything I could… until the bombings resumed—sudden, violent, and relentless.
My preparations ground to a halt. I confined myself to our shelter of displacement, terrified by the strikes that now targeted everything—civilians, cars, tents, aid centres.
There were no sweets left in town. The border crossings had been closed for a month, blocking the entry of humanitarian aid.
I stayed home, until the last day of Ramadan. Then, when the media began talking about a possible ceasefire for Eid, I dared to step out again to buy what was missing—especially for the children.
But when Eid arrived, and the promised calm did not, fear returned to my heart.
I decided we would spend it alone, at home, without travelling south to see family as we used to.
On Eid morning, the children wore their new clothes. I made them a breakfast I hoped would feel special, gave them a few sweets and small gifts.
But I could see in their eyes—they were not happy. Their repeated question confirmed it:
— Mama, when are we going out to the Eid celebration?
That was when I realized—happiness is not always something we can choose. Eid is not a solitary celebration. It’s a joy that depends on others.
And I remembered: every year, Eid truly began when my father and brothers arrived to visit. This year, they couldn’t. The roads were too dangerous.
Eid: A Celebration That Ends in Death
My children spent the whole day begging to go out, “just to see Eid in the streets.”
I tried to distract them, made excuses. But eventually, I gave in—reluctantly, and with a heavy heart.
We walked through a city in mourning, searching for any trace of Eid.
Prices were staggering. Everything was unaffordable.
My children trembled. Their joy evaporated. Their laughter dissolved into sobs. And just like that, everything I had done to make them smile was gone. I realized: there’s no use trying to create joy in a place where death is always one step behind.
Ever since the border crossing points were closed a month ago, prices had soared. The new wave of attacks, combined with Eid’s approach, made costs skyrocket—without logic or mercy.
Still, I bought what I could. I wanted to bring a moment of joy to my children.
But by sunset, I knew it was time to return home. In Gaza, night means fear. The airstrikes intensify, become more precise. Darkness brings danger.
And then, the very thing I had feared happened. The reason why I did not want to go out.
Just as we were nearing home—barely a minute away, maybe a few meters—an Israeli drone struck a civilian vehicle at a central intersection, exactly where we had walked moments before.
We heard the screams.
We saw bodies fall—people who had been beside us only minutes earlier.
They collapsed under the force of the shrapnel.
My children trembled. Their joy evaporated. Their laughter dissolved into sobs.
And just like that, everything I had done to make them smile was gone.
I realized: there’s no use trying to create joy in a place where death is always one step behind.
In Gaza, death is more patient, more persistent, than any of our attempts to survive.
A Bloody Eid
The first day of Eid ended with more than 70 new victims arriving at Gaza’s hospitals.
Dozens more were wounded—most of them women and children. They had been dressed in festive clothes—now soaked in blood.
The tents of the displaced lost what little festivity signs hey had.
The scent of cakes and ma’amoul was replaced by the acrid stench of gunpowder.
Where the takbîrs of Eid should have echoed, only the hum of warplanes could be heard.
The planes flew so low it felt as if they were sucking the breath from the city, robbing the souls of women and children, turning the songs of celebration into funeral dirges.
Eid prayers gave way to funeral prayers.
The UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs has confirmed that everything is in short supply in Gaza.
Food, medicine, water, electricity… Time. And life itself.
The humanitarian situation is unravelling. All the aid organizations are sounding the alarm.
But on the ground, the only thing that continues uninterrupted is the siege.
The only sounds that persist are the thunder of bombs, the hum of drones, and the silence of closed crossing points.
And yet—I am still a mother.
A mother still trying, against all odds, to find a fragment of joy for her children... in the heart of genocide.
