This is my third consecutive Eid al-Adha spent displaced, far from my home in Jabalia, in an area that has been designated a “red zone” under Israeli control.
During the war, livestock farms – of cattle, sheep, and goats – were largely destroyed. Only a very small number of sheep survived. Because of the Israeli blockade, the entry of livestock into the Gaza Strip has been prohibited since October 2023. As a result, prices have increased roughly tenfold, with a single sheep now reaching approximately $6,000. This sharp rise has deprived many families of the joy of Eid and the ability to perform the ritual sacrifice, which is one of the most important religious traditions.
The impact of the blockade was not limited to livestock. It also pushed up the cost of goods associated with Eid, such as chocolates and nuts. The price of a kilogram (2.2lb) of chocolate reached about $30, nearly four times its pre-war price. This rise has significantly dampened the festive atmosphere for many families.
Despite the blockade, the destruction, and the overwhelming sadness affecting hundreds of thousands of families in Gaza, people continue to hold on to life and try to create happiness from the simplest things.
On the night before Eid, I stood by the window of the house we rented in the Remal area of Gaza, overlooking Kazem ice-cream shop, one of the most famous and oldest in the city. The street was brightly lit, crowded with shoppers, and filled with stalls selling chocolates, fruits, and biscuits. For a moment, I stood there watching the people before deciding to go downstairs, have ice cream, and share in their joy. I had not experienced Eid night celebrations for three years because of the war.
I went down with my mother and my sister Zina, leaving my younger sister Tuline asleep, holding her Eid clothes in her arms. We walked into the street, bought ice cream, and moved through the crowds. The street was extremely crowded – Remal is one of the most densely populated areas in Gaza, especially on Eid nights, when movement becomes almost impossible because of the sheer number of people and stalls.
The sound of aircraft overhead was extremely loud, and planes were flying intensively. I found myself hoping that, this time, civilians would be spared, even though the fear of another massacre had become painfully familiar.
My smile was suddenly interrupted by the sound of rockets hitting the very street where I was standing. When I heard the first explosion, I put my hand on my head and my mother held me. We heard about four rockets in total.
We were terrified. I was shocked by the sight of shoppers running while carrying their bags. I saw a mother embracing her child and screaming that the building that had been struck contained her husband and children. Glass, debris, dust, and smoke filled the area.
The ice cream fell from my hand as I grabbed my phone, trying to check on my brothers, who were also in Remal, shopping. Their phones were off. I ran back home, calling them repeatedly along the way, overwhelmed with fear. When I arrived, I received a call from my brother Adi telling me he was safe, and that the strikes had landed only a few metres (feet) away from him and my brother Ziad.
I felt relieved and stood by my window again, looking out over Remal. It was a strange but powerful scene: Shoppers – especially women and children – running back home, while others continued their shopping, as if sending a message that they could not be broken or have their joy taken away.
A second round of explosions occurred only minutes later, a short distance from the first. Once again, people fled the market in panic, screaming as fear took over their faces. Some were crying heavily.
According to sources cited by Al Jazeera, six people were killed and 20 were injured in Israeli attacks on the Remal neighbourhood.
After confirming that the attacks had ended, I returned to the window, watching the movement of shoppers and trying to steal moments of joy. Only minutes after the attacks and the panic that had filled the streets, people returned to shop. The stores and stalls remained open until 4am. Despite the blockade and high prices, the streets were still full of people – many of whom could not afford to buy what they needed, yet still came to experience the atmosphere and hold on to fragments of joy.
Truly, we are a people who love life.
On the morning of Eid, like most families in Gaza, we placed sweets and nuts on the table and greeted each other, hoping for an end to our suffering and for Gaza to be protected. We ate frozen liver for breakfast.
When my father had asked what we wanted to eat on Eid morning, I said we wanted liver. Since childhood, we have been used to sacrificing animals on Eid and delaying breakfast until after the sacrifice, eating liver as the first meal of the day. I wanted to relive that memory and feel a sense of Eid again.
At about 1pm, after the call to prayer, we heard people chanting, “There is no god but Allah, and the martyr is beloved to Allah.” We looked at each other, and my younger sister asked, “Who has been martyred, father?”
He replied that these were the funerals of the previous night’s martyrs from Remal.
They had been preparing for Eid, but the occupation took away their joy and their lives, turning Eid from a day of celebration and visits into a day of mourning.
A source from Middle East Eye reported that on the first day of Eid al-Adha, 15 people were buried after they were killed in attacks on Eid night across the Gaza Strip, including commander Mohammed Awda, his wife, and three of their children.
We do not celebrate Eid because we are well – we celebrate because we are still alive. And we believe that our celebration itself is a form of resistance.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
