Despite the pain, the destruction, and the fact that this is the fourth Eid we’ve spent under war, I will not let sorrow steal my right to feel joy.
Eid has always been the most beautiful time of the year—a day filled with warmth, love, and togetherness. It’s a time when families reunite, laughter fills the air, and cherished traditions come to life. The true essence of Eid lies not in material things, but in the presence of those who brighten our lives—the people who turn simple moments into lasting memories.
But this Eid is different. It is an Eid of longing, marked by empty spaces where loved ones once stood. This year, I have lost the very people who made Eid special—my aunt Asmaa, my uncle’s wife Neveen, my cousin Fatima, my uncle Abd al-Salam, and his children, Huthaifa and Hala. I have lost dear friends: Shimaa, Raghad, Mayar, Lina, and Asmaa. I have lost many beloved teachers, including my dear teacher Aziza and Kholoud, whose guidance left an unforgettable mark on my heart. I have lost the home of my grandfather—the place my father took us to every Eid to visit our uncles. I have lost the streets, the familiar places, the Gaza I once knew.
Eid preparations in our home were always special. On Eid night, my father would bring home the finest nuts, sweets, chocolates, and juices, while my mother filled the house with the warm scent of freshly baked Eid cookies—ka’ak and ma’amoul. We would carefully arrange everything downstairs, in the part of our home reserved for guests, ready to welcome visitors with treats, laughter, and the joy of sharing.
View this post on Instagram
And then there was my sister, Doa’a. She had a way of making everything feel magical. Days before Eid, she would buy decorations, gift boxes, sweets, and all kinds of small details that made the holiday unforgettable. One year, she surprised us with beautifully designed boxes filled with Eid money, each accompanied by a heartfelt note: “May you always be blessed. Eid Mubarak!” Her attention to detail made Eid feel truly special.
The excitement of Eid would begin on its eve. I would go to Doa’a and Sojood’s room, and we’d stay up late preparing everything. We filled small boxes with sweets, nougat, and treats for the children, arranging them with care. Doa’a would give each of us an Eid mask—a light facial mask to refresh our skin before the celebrations. It was a small but joyful tradition we loved.
Eid morning began early. My father and three brothers would wake first for the Eid prayer. My sisters, our neighbor and dearest friend Mymona, and I would get ready to join them. The prayer marked the true beginning of Eid, filling my heart with peace and joy. I was always the first to get ready—eager to begin the day.
By the time we returned, Doa’a would be waiting with the gift baskets, beaming with excitement. She loved seeing the joy on the children’s faces as they received their little Eid boxes. Their smiles were priceless. In those moments, I found true happiness.
After distributing gifts, we’d help our mother prepare breakfast. The whole family gathered at the table, sharing food, stories, and laughter. This was one of my favorite parts of Eid—being together, feeling the warmth of family.
View this post on Instagram
Every Eid al-Adha, my father made sure we sacrificed a sheep or calf. For him, Eid wasn’t complete without the act of giving. He would wake early, quietly preparing the space in our yard—surrounded by trees and open air—then wait for the butcher while we watched with curious eyes. When the animal was sacrificed, he whispered the takbeer with calm faith, as if inviting the spirit of Eid into our home. He divided the meat thoughtfully, ensuring every portion reached neighbors, relatives, and those in need. For him, this was the heart of Eid—the joy of giving.
One of the most anticipated traditions was receiving our Eid clothes and money from our father. We’d line up—sometimes eldest to youngest, sometimes the reverse—and he’d give each of us our Eidiyah, a gesture far more meaningful than the money itself. It was a symbol of love, of tradition, of Eid’s joy.
Afterwards, we’d prepare for our first round of visits. We always began at my eldest sister Tasneem’s home, close by. From there, my father would take us to my grandfather’s house—the place where so many of our Eid memories were made. We’d visit our uncles, aunts, and cousins, exchanging greetings and catching up.
Then we would go to my uncle Mohammed and aunt Asmaa. We’d sit with them, share laughter and stories, and continue the circle of joy.
But my grandfather’s building and my uncle’s house were both bombed by the occupation. They are now rubble.
My father had his own tradition. After visiting the uncles, he would gather them and take them to see our aunts and other relatives. For us girls, the last visit of the day was to my maternal grandfather’s house. We’d greet him, my uncles, and their families, promising to return soon for a longer visit. Eid visits were short but meaningful—we made sure to savor every moment.
Once visits ended, my father would bring us home, and the evening would continue with guests from my mother’s side. My maternal grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins would come to our house, filling it with laughter, stories, and the spirit of Eid.
For me, the first day of Eid ended when the guests left. I’d change into my special Eid pajamas and begin my little tradition—watching Detective Conan while snacking on chips and instant noodles. That quiet, cozy moment helped me unwind after a full day of joy.
The second and third days of Eid were just as special. On the second day, relatives visited us. On the third, we all gathered at my maternal grandfather’s house—uncles, aunts, cousins. These were the moments that made Eid whole: the joy of being surrounded by family, creating memories that lasted a lifetime.
View this post on Instagram
But this year, the world will celebrate Eid in joy—streets adorned with lights, hearts filled with peace, children chasing balloons, homes echoing with greetings.
And here in Gaza? Joy has vanished. Where are the voices that used to fill our home? Where is the family that gathered around the table? Where are the flowers that once decorated our streets?
How can we celebrate in the midst of destruction? How can we rejoice when safety is a distant memory? How can we exchange Eid wishes when we’re losing our loved ones one by one?
This Eid, we’ve lost more than people. We’ve lost pieces of ourselves.
My aunt Asmaa, my uncle’s wife Neveen, my cousin Fatima, my uncle Abd al-Salam, his children Huthaifa and Hala—gone. My dear friends Shimaa, Raghad, Mayar, Lina, and Asmaa—gone. Even the houses, the streets, the Gaza I loved—gone.
I write their names here, because I refuse to let them be forgotten:
- Asmaa Al-Wawi – November 1, 2023 – My aunt
- Neveen Khalifa – November 1, 2023 – My uncle’s wife
- Fatima Mohammed Al-Wawi – November 1, 2023 – My cousin
- Abd al-Salam Al-Wawi – December 30, 2023 – My uncle
- Huthaifa Abd al-Salam Al-Wawi – December 30, 2023 – 13 years old – My cousin
- Hala Abd al-Salam Al-Wawi – December 30, 2023 – 8 years old – My cousin
- Shimaa Saidam – October 15, 2023 – 19 years old
- Raghad Al-Naami – October 16, 2023 – 19 years old
- Lina Al-Hour – October 27, 2023 – 19 years old
- Mayar Jouda – October 31, 2023 – 18 years old
- Asmaa Jouda – May 24, 2025 – 21 years old
How can we celebrate in the shadow of grief? How can we rejoice when Gaza breathes death at every turn?
And yet, I will try.
In obedience to the words of Allah:
“That [is so]. And whoever honors the symbols of Allah—indeed, it is from the piety of hearts.” (Surat Al-Hajj, 22:32)
Despite the pain, the destruction, and the fact that this is the fourth Eid we’ve spent under war, I will not let sorrow steal my right to feel joy. I will search for hope among the ruins, plant smiles on the faces of those who remain, and hang decorations in my heart if I find no walls to hang them on.
Honoring God’s symbols is not just celebration—it is patience, resilience, and reviving joy even when all seems lost.
(The Palestine Chronicle)
– Taqwa Ahmed al-Wawi is an aspiring writer and student of English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, carving her path in a city that speaks the language of resilience. She contributed this article to the Palestine Chronicle.
Be the first to comment