GAZA, (PIC)
While groups of pilgrims began flocking to the Mina site with the dawn of the Day of Tarwiyah, preparing to stand on Mount Arafat, the picture in the Gaza Strip was painful to a different extent, millions of Muslims are heading to the holy sites with hearts full of hope, while Gazans received this day, heavily loaded with meanings, among the rubble of houses, under the sounds of raids, and amid non-stop displacement.
Every year, Tarwiyah day carries the meaning of preparation, provisioning with water, preparing for the rituals, and hearts filling with the reverence of Hajj, a day in which souls turn to Allah in reassurance, and the doors of supplication open wide.
But Gaza this year receives the day from another angle, a city exhausted by the military aggression, and the features of the seasons that people used to have disappeared, to be replaced by a heavy waiting and a fear open to all possibilities.
Between the response of the pilgrims and the screams of the survivors
At the time when the voices of the pilgrims rose with “Labbayk Allahumma Labbayk”, Gaza was raising a prayer of another kind, a prayer for survival, a request for safety, and hope that the coming hours would pass without a new loss.
Here, no caravans are heading to Mina, and there are no preparations for an Eid season as used to happen every year, people carry what simple needs they can, and move from one place to another looking for a temporary shelter, watching the sky more than they look at the earth, and dealing with every new day as a new test of patience.
While pilgrims provision themselves with water before standing in Arafat, Gazans provision themselves with what remains of the ability to endure, long queues to get water, continuous attempts to secure bread, and mothers who summarize all of life in one prayer: “O Allah, pass this day in peace.”
In Gaza, irrigation with patience
Tarwiyah day is linked in its religious meaning to provisioning with water in preparation for the rituals, but Gaza knew irrigation this year in a different way, the land is heavy with the effects of the bombing, the sky is filled with smoke, and people irrigate their day with patience more than anything else.
Inside the displacement centers, nothing resembles the seasons that Gazans knew previously, children know that Eid al-Adha is near, but they do not know where they will be after hours, and families who lost their homes more than once, carry what remains of their needs and try to create a narrow space for life amidst a reality that does not give them much time or safety.
Umm Muhammad Al-Arbashli says as she arranges a blanket over the floor of a worn-out tent, “On days like these, we used to wait for Arafat and Eid, and we rejoiced as we followed the pilgrims and exchanged congratulations. Today, we do not know what will come after the night, and all we ask is for our children to remain well.”
She adds as she looks at her children, “Even the prayers became different, we used to pray for blessing and livelihood, and today we pray for life.”
Eid approaches, and Gaza counts its losses
With the approach of Eid al-Adha, Gaza recalls seasons that were associated with joy, the markets, the takbeers of the mosques, family visits, and simple preparations that used to give the days a special flavor.
But the scene today is different, an entire city living between mourning and waiting, counting the names of those it lost, and watching what remains of the details of life as it erodes day after day.
Despite everything, people’s faith remains present, that Allah hears the prayers no matter how intense the pain is, and that the seasons of worship remain wider than war, and bigger than the place.