GAZA, (PIC)
This year, Eid al-Fitr arrives in Gaza under extraordinary circumstances. The war has not only reshaped geography but also redefined the details of daily life, pushing thousands of families into temporary spaces lacking even the minimum of stability. Inside displacement camps, Eid becomes a harsh test of Palestinians’ ability to preserve their rituals, even in their most minimal form.
The tent is no longer just an emergency shelter; it has become a complete world where the family lives with all its details, despite its narrowness and overcrowding, and the different reality it imposes on the meaning of Eid.
Abu Yasser Sorour, 49, says, “At home we welcomed Eid with cleaning, arranging, and preparing… my wife decorated the place, the children wore new clothes, and we received guests. Today we are in a tent that barely fits us. We try to arrange it, but the feeling is completely different… there is no sense that it’s really Eid.” He adds, his voice heavy, “Harder than the place is the feeling… as if you live Eid without its spirit.”
Fida Abu Mughseeb, 38, notes, “The tent cannot handle visits or gatherings. Even if we wanted to welcome someone, we can’t. Eid was built on togetherness… now each family is in its own tent, and that’s what hurts most.”
Fragmented rituals
The rituals that once formed a complete social fabric for Eid have unraveled inside the camps, reduced to limited, abbreviated practices.
Ibrahim Al-Muzayyen, 55, says, “We used to go out after prayer and start visiting house after house. Today, none of that. We barely greet those around us here, quickly.” He adds, “People are exhausted… no one has the energy for joy as before.”
Siham Miqdad, 43, explains, “We used to prepare food days before Eid, bake cookies, and make sweets. Today we cook whatever is available, and sometimes there’s nothing special… we just try to make sure the day isn’t completely ordinary.”
Children are the most affected by this shift, though they remain the most adaptable. Adam, 9, says, “Eid here is different… we don’t go out much, and there are no places to play. We try to play between the tents and make toys from simple things.” He adds, “Sometimes I imagine how Eid was in our house… Baba (Daddy) always tells us about it.”
Malak, 7, says, “I want to wear my Eid dress and visit Grandma… but we’re here. Mama (Mammy) promised we’ll celebrate in a simple way.” Then she adds softly, “The important thing is to be together.”
With cash scarce, the tradition of Eidiyah (cash gifts for children) has changed from monetary value to symbolic gestures. Fathiya Abu Amra, 34, says children ask about Eidiyah, “but we can’t give them money like before. We try to make up for it with a piece of candy, a biscuit, or a simple toy if available.” She adds, “We try to preserve the feeling… that this day is different.”
Qusay Abu Al-Atta, 46, points out that the issue isn’t the value of Eidiyah but its meaning, “We fear the children will grow up not knowing the feeling we once had.”
Harsh priorities
In displacement, basic needs take precedence, pushing Eid to a secondary place. Abu Salim, 52, says, “We think daily about securing water and food… these are our priorities. Eid comes later, if there’s room. Still, we try to make sure our children don’t feel it’s just another day.”
Umm Muhammad, 40, says, “We live between two desires: securing essentials and keeping some joy. We try to balance, though it’s difficult.”
Amid this reality, solidarity emerges as a way to ease life’s harshness. Umm Ahmad, 47, says, “If we have something, we share it with neighbors… food or sweets. The children play together, and we don’t want anyone to feel deprived.” She adds, “Eid here is collective despite everything.”
In Gaza’s tents, Eid is no longer a festive ritual but an act of resilience. Abu Mahmoud Al-Sisi, 60, says, “We don’t celebrate as we used to, but we refuse to let Eid pass as just any day. We try to preserve the idea… the joy.”