Every home is missing someone, every person is carrying grief. We went not to celebrate but to sit with the bereaved
E
id al-Fitr is meant to bring release. It comes at the end of Ramadan, after a month of fasting and prayer, and in Gaza it has always carried its own kind of joy. The day begins with prayer. Men and boys gather in clean clothes, neighbours congratulate one another, friends embrace, and supplications rise with the first light. Families return home for breakfast, then begin the long round of visits to sisters, daughters, aunts, uncles and neighbours. Children wait for eidiya, the money given to younger relatives. Coffee is poured, sweets are shared and doors remain open.
This year, the rituals remained. The feeling had gone.
Sorrow seemed to stand among us. People said “Eid Mubarak”, but the words landed differently, as if everyone knew they were speaking across a vast field of absence. After breakfast with my mother and brothers, at 9.30am my three brothers and I set out and did not return until about 11.30pm. We moved from house to house on foot – transport is too difficult and unreliable.
