Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation

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For decades throughout Gaza, Ramadan had a familiar shared rhythm: the smell of soup rising from kitchens, the sound of plates being set, and children hurrying to the place where everyone would meet. For my family, that place was always my grandma’s house. Now everything feels different. Ramadan still arrives, but something essential is missing.

This is the first Ramadan we’ve observed without my grandmother, Aisha Dmeida; the first Ramadan when we do not go to her house; and the first Ramadan when we do not hear her kind voice minutes before the evening Maghrib prayer, asking, “Did you prepare the dates?” referring to the dates that we consume after sundown to break our daily fast. This is the first Ramadan when her chair is empty because she was martyred during the famine, when medicine became a wish and bread became almost impossible to find.

In our family, Ramadan was never just a month on the calendar. It revolved around my grandmother. Every year, we gathered at her home before sunset. But this year, we gathered without her.

During the 11-day war in May 2021, my grandmother’s house was bombed. After that, she moved in with us for about a year and a half. Sharing daily life under one roof deepened our relationship in ways I had not expected. I came to know her habits and routines: the careful way she folded clothes, the order in which she arranged her belongings. We spent an entire Ramadan together, preparing iftar side by side, breaking our fast together, and waking at the same time for suhoor, the pre-dawn meal eaten before the daily fast of Ramadan begins.

In December 2022, my grandmother moved to a new house in the same neighborhood, but our Ramadan routine remained unchanged. Every day, we went to her home for both iftar dinners and early morning suhoor meals, a habit that was never up for debate and that we all embraced willingly. Each evening, she would wait for us before sunset, as if the day itself would not be complete without our arrival.

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Her home was modest: two small rooms and a narrow kitchen filled with the smell of cumin and cardamom. She did not believe in excess. She would say, “Ramadan is about gathering,” not about how full the table is.

Minutes before the call to prayer, she would quietly adjust the cups and spoons while sitting on her bed, and then asked her familiar question: “Did you prepare........

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