Ramadan 2024 passed with extreme hardship and difficulty for me and my peers, as we endured life in tents that lacked privacy.

The month of Ramadan began while we were in the tent, where the rituals felt nothing like previous years. My soul longed to hear the call to Maghrib prayer, signaling the time to break our fast, and the first and second calls to Fajr prayer, marking the time to begin fasting.

Yes, last year’s Ramadan came to us sorrowful, stripped of all the spirituality we were accustomed to experiencing.

Our pre-dawn suhoor meals lacked lighting, flashlights, gas, or even a hot cup of tea, a toasted loaf of bread, or a delicious piece of cheese with some sweet dates. We tried to pretend that we were preparing a proper suhoor for fasting, but the harsh conditions forced us to forgo its atmosphere and forget the blessings it holds.

The days of Ramadan were filled with unbearable heat, swarming flies, food shortages, and soaring prices. We no longer planned what we would eat to break our fast, relying instead on the meals provided by charity kitchens for displaced families—meals that barely sufficed for an entire family.

The scarcity of water and lack of lighting made cleaning dishes after iftar a frustrating ordeal. We were deprived of Taraweeh prayers due to the absence of mosques or open spaces to accommodate worshippers. The sounds of rockets shattered our concentration during prayer, dhikr, and supplication, making us jolt in fear, trying to collect our broken spirits.

The Hardest Moment of Ramadan

One of the most painful experiences I endured in Ramadan was a moment just before Maghrib prayer. A missile struck an area near our camp, and a piece of shrapnel pierced one of the tents, killing a woman—Fatimah Murtaja.

Screams filled the air. I did not immediately realize they were coming from my camp. I rushed toward the commotion and saw blood on the ground. I frantically asked those nearby what had happened. They told me that a woman had been hit in the head by shrapnel. I tried to turn away—I was not strong enough to witness such scenes—but I saw everything.

It was the second time I had seen blood and martyrs up close, but my heart ached even more when I saw her only son in shock, repeatedly crying out, “My mother is martyred! My mother is martyred!”

The men in the camp called for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. Deep down, I knew she would not survive—her injury was severe.

Two hours later, the news of her martyrdom arrived. Though I had expected it, I felt a sharp pain in my heart. I kept thinking about her son—how would he go on with his life without his mother?

The Maghrib call to prayer was raised, and my mother and I set the dishes for iftar. But it felt more like a mourning ceremony than a meal to break our fast. I could not eat as usual. I stepped out of the tent to observe the atmosphere in the camp.

Sadness hung over every corner. The women of the camp gathered in the open space, trying to console the martyr’s family. But how could we ease such a searing pain, a wound that would remain etched in the heart and memory forever?

A Psychological Struggle

The inability to live my normal life, the lack of any reason to hold on to hope, plunged me into a deep psychological crisis. I suffered from severe emotional distress that manifested in physical symptoms. I missed my menstrual cycle for two months, my weight gaining, my face grew pale, and I was consumed by constant anxiety, overthinking, and an ache in my heart that would not subside.

Despite being displaced with about 35 others in the camp, I withdrew from social gatherings. I preferred isolation over sitting with family members or people my age.

When the invasion of Rafah forced my family and me to flee once again, searching for another tent outside Rafah, my mental state deteriorated even further.

I tried to adapt to life in displacement, hoping—as did millions of others—that this suffering would end. But our prayers remained unanswered.

To make matters worse, the skyrocketing prices made it impossible for my family to afford hygiene products. Sara Saleh, 20 years old, shared her struggle:

“The distance to the shared bathroom made it difficult to use, and the lack of privacy was frustrating. Each bathroom was shared by three families. We also suffered from a shortage of sanitary pads, and the pain of menstruation was unbearable, especially in the discomfort of the tent.”

Her older sister, Asala Saleh, 22 years old, added:

“Not having sage tea, which I used to drink to ease my menstrual pain, was hard for me. I never liked taking painkillers, but we were forced to buy medicine no matter the cost, just to ease the pain even slightly.”

A Day of Mourning, Not Eid 

The day of Eid arrived, but it was drenched in sorrow. It stripped away the facades people had put up, exposing the deep wounds hidden in their hearts. The adults bore the weight of grief, while the children desperately clung to the fragments of joy, wearing new clothes that had been donated by a charity—small gifts that managed to bring fleeting smiles to their innocent faces.

I tried to relive the spirit of Eid, but I hesitated to say, “Eid Mubarak,” because we were displaced in tents.

I stole glances at my mother on Eid morning, only to find her in tears as she tried to contact her siblings and their children, who were still trapped in northern Gaza—starving, displaced, and devastated by the destruction of her  family home in Jabalia, a place that had held her childhood memories.

It was truly a tragedy.

The bonds of family, the warmth of gatherings, the exchange of Eid gifts, the joyous feasts with loved ones—all of it was lost. The table once adorned with chocolates, Eid cookies, nuts, and drinks was no more. The outings we had planned with our cousins and friends never happened.

No trips to the bustling streets of Rimal or Sheikh Radwan to shop for Eid clothes. No late-night cravings for a shawarma sandwich from Palmira. We had lost everything—Ramadan’s sacred traditions and the festive spirit of Eid, both of which we had eagerly awaited each year.

Oh, Ramadan, we yearn for you.

We pray that when you return, you bring back your warmth, generosity, and beauty. We long for the Ramadan we once knew and cherished—a Ramadan that heals rather than deepens our wounds.