Image by Eman Alhaj Ali.
I remember writing about Eid in Gaza two years ago during the genocide, feeling my heart break as I expressed the bittersweet feelings we endured during that time. Now, I write these words from a different place—far from the appalling sounds of bombs, from being trapped in a cage, from a graveyard of destruction. I am writing as a survivor of the genocide, having lived under its suffocating grip for more than 17 months. While I write, I feel like I am dreaming; I wish someone would wake me up and tell me this is reality. Words fail to describe how I managed to evacuate Gaza alone to continue my postgraduate studies just two months ago, leaving my family suffering behind. Gaza will never leave me—something I remind myself of daily.
This year, on June 6th, we mark Eid Al Adha for Muslims around the world, but this Eid feels different for me. I am alone here in exile, while my family and the people of Gaza suffer, unable to feel the blessing of this occasion.
Muslims celebrate two Eids, Eid Al Fitr and Eid Al Adha, and in Gaza before the genocide, there were cherished rituals and traditions that marked these days. Let me take you on that journey. Not only do my people in Gaza cling to those memories and celebrations, but I myself hold onto them with tearful eyes, recalling even the simplest moments. I know how hard it is to experience such occasions amid war and killings. I lived through those heart-wrenching moments with my family: empty streets replaced by rubble, the sounds of Takbirat during Eid prayers filled with agony, and the absence of joy. In Gaza, instead of celebrating, people mourn; mothers mourn their children, others sit on rubble, some visit the graves of martyrs—if they are lucky enough to find them, as even graves have been bombed. For me, in exile, I feel suffocated, far from my parents, from my young siblings who would run to me, hugging me tightly and asking, “Where is the candy? Where is the Eidia?” The feeling of loneliness amidst many people around me is heartbreaking. Even if I try to find happiness in other ways, going here, going there, I still remember those Eids with my family. I long to return, even for the simplest moments, to be near them again.
Preparation for Eid always began weeks in advance. Two weeks prior, bustling crowds would venture out to shop for necessities. Every corner in Gaza would be decorated with food and desserts, especially the finest dates for making ka’ek, a small circular biscuit covered in powdered sugar and filled with date paste, nuts, walnuts, pistachios, lokum, or honey. Shopping for new attire was essential; Gaza’s shops and malls would overflow with garments—from dresses for girls to suits for boys, and elegant gowns for Eid prayers. Families would decorate their homes, and on the eve of Eid, children eagerly awaited sweets prepared by their mothers.
At dawn on Eid morning, Gaza’s neighborhoods would fill with chants of prayers and takbir. Children, dressed in their finest, would echo “Allahu Akbar” as they accompanied their parents to prayer. The mornings would be busy with audhia and sacrifices, meat distributed among families, and visits to relatives’ homes—exchanging congratulations and giving children their Eidia. Streets would come alive with children playing, singing, and fireworks lighting up the sky. But for the second year, Gaza’s streets cannot echo with laughter. Instead, the colorful lights and decorations have been replaced by the flash of Israeli bombs and explosions. The joyful sounds of children are replaced with screams beneath rubble, neighborhoods turned into graveyards, mosques leveled, streets torn apart. Families now gather not to celebrate, but to mourn—they crave the simple pleasures of Eid: children’s laughter, the scent of traditional treats, the peace of prayer.
For the second year, Eid is not about sacrificing animals. Instead, human beings—mothers, children, entire families—have been slaughtered. The streets are silent and desolate, robbed of life and joy. The once vibrant streets are now empty, devoid of children’s energy, their laughter replaced by mourning and despair.
The helplessness I feel is overwhelming. I am here while my family and siblings endure unimaginable conditions in Gaza. I cannot bear the thought of them spending Eid without joy, without wearing new clothes or holding toys, without me by their side. For me, it’s not just about Eid; it’s about the pain of being isolated from my homeland in such horrifying circumstances. I am living yet another Nakba.
This is my second Nakba, but for my family, it is more profound. Our ancestors were expelled from Jaffa during the Nakba of 1948, forced to settle in Gaza, our homeland, our refuge. During the ongoing genocide in Gaza, we were forced to leave our homes and live in tents. That was the Nakba I witnessed firsthand.
Our displacement began early in 2023. In the first months of the genocide, we evacuated multiple times—initially to Rafah during winter, setting up tents without basic necessities. I remember the cold, the hunger of my younger siblings, and the scarcity of food, mostly canned and unhealthy. We were displaced around ten times, each time worse than before. Our backpacks, once filled with essentials, became emptier as we fled with nothing but our souls. Our cozy family home was burned to ashes, adding to our grief. Many people in Gaza became homeless, sleeping in the streets, with no place to call home. We evacuated to the sea, which was once a place of joy for families, now turned into a sea of tents for refuge. Disease spread rapidly; my siblings contracted jaundice due to polluted water and unhealthy food. Gaza had become a graveyard, with shattered bodies everywhere. Basic necessities, such as water, became scarce and hard to access. Children lost their innocence, standing in queues for water instead of playing or going to school, which had become shelters. Malnutrition and starvation claimed many lives. Children stripped to their bones, dying from cold, disease, and lack of food. People waited in endless lines for aid, as border closures worsened their suffering.
Image by Eman Alhaj Ali.
My second Nakba began when I left Gaza in mid-April, my first trip abroad. It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever made. Leaving my family and my city felt like losing part of my soul. I traveled through checkpoints, leaving Gaza without anything—only a small handbag. The heartbreak of saying goodbye to my parents and siblings who surrounded me, pleading, “Eman, don’t leave us!” is etched into my memory. Leaving Gaza in such conditions felt like an impossible choice, yet I saw no future there. I had always dreamed of studying abroad, exploring the world, but never imagined I’d leave in such circumstances. The journey through Ker Shaloum border, with its destroyed homes and Israeli tanks, was terrifying. Passing through occupied Palestinian land, I saw the beauty of Palestine, but as a prisoner, unable to touch or walk on our land, only able to see it from the bus. We saw the Dead Sea, Jericho, and other cities. We took photos and videos, but without being able to access them. The joy of Israelis enjoying our land while we were forced to watch from afar added to our pain.
Arriving in Ireland, I found warmth and kindness from the Irish people, feeling like I was in a second home—yet, I couldn’t fully believe it. I still live with a personal Nakba, far from my family and homeland. Surviving Gaza’s war has not lessened my pain; it has intensified it. Each memory, each fight to rebuild amid chaos, deepens the ache. It’s hard to explain how life can vanish in a moment—how everything you love can be left behind, even your home, which never leaves you. I will never forget my family’s house; its smell, my parents’ stories, the jasmine, olive, and lemon trees that once witnessed our happiness.
I never thought this would be my story in my twenties. We are still asking questions with no answers: Will we see Gaza free? Will we walk its streets again without fear? Will we ever be more than survivors? Nearly two years have passed, and we continue to ask the world to see us not just as victims but as people with dreams, rights, and hope.
We demand our rights. We do not ask for miracles. We want peace, to return home, and to walk our streets freely. Despite everything, hope is still there. It is fragile but strong. It lives in our children dreaming of a better future, in mothers telling stories under drones’ ominous sounds, in doctors and journalists risking everything to tell our story. Hope is what keeps Gaza alive—refusing to break.
Image by Eman Alhaj Ali.
We are scattered across the world but connected by memories and belonging. Gaza is in our hearts—we carry its sea, olives, and prayers within us. Our homeland, the land of our ancestors, the smell of the sea, the taste of olives, the sound of prayers; these remain alive inside us. I left Gaza, but Gaza will never leave me. We will keep speaking, shouting, and writing until the world hears us. We will keep dreaming, hoping, fighting—for ourselves, for our children’s future, for our ancestors’ memories, and the soul of Palestine.
Gaza has taught me hope, and I refuse to let it go. We won’t be silenced or erased. Eighteen months and counting, our sacrifice isn’t over. But one thing is certain: as long as there’s life in Gaza, there’s hope. We will never give up. We will never surrender. And we will come back.
