Ramadan arrives in Gaza this year (2026) for the first time since the ceasefire that came into effect last October. Yet the word “ceasefire” feels painfully detached from reality. The bombs may have slowed, but the wounds remain open. The devastation is vast, the humanitarian catastrophe is over imagination, and daily life continues under the shadow of siege and recurring violations, bombs, and killing. For Palestinians in Gaza, Ramadan is not simply a month of fasting and prayer; it is a test of endurance, faith, and the stubborn will to survive.

Across the Gaza Strip, entire neighborhoods remain flattened and severely damaged, rendering most of the buildings as uninhabitable. Concrete skeletons of homes stand as silent witnesses to a war (a genocide) that took tens of thousands of lives and displaced nearly the entire population. In what used to be bustling streets, families now gather in tents held beside the ruins of their houses. The call to Maghrib prayer echoes not between intact buildings, but over rubble and temporary shelters. This Ramadan is the first after months of unimaginable loss, yet little in the humanitarian situation has meaningfully improved.

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The siege continues to suffocate Gaza: Severe shortages of food, fuel, and basic services define daily existence among people in Gaza. Prices of essential goods have surged – some by as much as 300 percent – while more than 90 percent of the population relies on international aid to meet their most basic needs, according to UN reports.

The entry of goods remains restricted and inconsistent, making preparations for the holy month an extraordinary challenge to almost all of the Gazan households.

The entry of goods remains restricted and inconsistent, making preparations for the holy month an extraordinary challenge to almost all of the Gazan households.

The traditional Ramadan table, once filled with rice, meat, sweets, and family recipes passed down through generations, has been reduced in many homes to bread, a few vegetables, or whatever limited assistance arrives. 

Economic collapse deepens the hardship: Unemployment in Gaza has soared above 80 percent, according to UN agencies and Palestinian statistical reports. With livelihoods destroyed and businesses reduced to rubble, families have little to no-purchasing power. For many, the concept of shopping for Ramadan has become a memory. Instead, communal iftars by charities are organized among the displaced, often between ruins or inside overcrowded shelters. Neighbors share what little they have: a pot of lentils, a tray of rice, a handful of dates. In the absence of income and opportunity, solidarity has become Gaza’s most precious currency.

Yet perhaps the heaviest burden this Ramadan is the pain of absence: The war claimed tens of thousands of lives, including more than 20,000 children.

According to UNICEF estimates, over 58,000 children in Gaza have lost one or both parents. Ramadan, traditionally a month of family gatherings around the iftar and suhoor tables, now exposes the emptiness left behind.

According to UNICEF estimates, over 58,000 children in Gaza have lost one or both parents. Ramadan, traditionally a month of family gatherings around the iftar and suhoor tables, now exposes the emptiness left behind.

Families gather in tents or amid broken walls, but empty spaces remain — chairs that will remain empty. Sons, daughters, fathers, mothers: their absence is felt in every prayer, in every bite of bread, and in every supplication at night.

For many mothers, preparing a modest meal means confronting memories of children who once crowded the table. For fathers, leading the evening prayer carries the silent weight of those who are no longer standing behind them. The trauma is collective, layered, and raw. Ramadan is meant to heal, but in Gaza the wounds are still bleeding.

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However, amid this devastation, steadfastness and challenge persist: the refusal to surrender joy entirely. In displacement camps and shattered neighborhoods, children hang handmade lanterns crafted from scraps of paper and bits of metal. They decorate tents and broken walls with colorful drawings and the words “Welcome, Ramadan.” The decorations are fragile, improvised, and sometimes uneven—but they shine with defiance and hold a will to survive. These simple gestures are acts of resistance in their own right. They declare that even under siege, life continues. Even amid hunger, faith survives. 

Mosques, many of them damaged, fill again for Taraweeh prayers. In places where minarets have fallen, worshippers pray under open skies. The recitation of the Qur’an rises above the hum of generators and the distant sound of drones that never leave Gaza.

Ramadan in Gaza is stripped of comfort, but not of meaning. It has become a month not only of fasting from food, but of fasting from despair.

Ramadan in Gaza is stripped of comfort, but not of meaning. It has become a month not only of fasting from food, but of fasting from despair.

This is how Palestinians in Gaza welcome Ramadan in 2026: with hunger but also with dignity; with grief but also with steadfastness; with unhealed wounds but unbroken resolve. The catastrophe is ongoing and the ceasefire is fragile by Israeli daily violations. Yet, Ramadan in Gaza is not merely observed but endured, reshaped, and reclaimed as a testament to faith and the unwavering will to remain.

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