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As the sun begins to set, a bustling atmosphere fills my suburban Maryland home in anticipation of iftar. I hastily prepare the dinner table, warm up the dishes, and top off the date container before my eagerly awaiting family of six arrives to break a lengthy 13-hour fast. The kitchen is alive with the sounds of cooking — sambousek frying, plates clattering, and the delightful aromas of apricot nectar, maqlouba, and shorabit adas mingle in the air alongside the enticing scent of cheese-stuffed atayef. Fatigue is setting in, urging me to take a moment’s rest, but the celebration calls.
Meanwhile, across the globe, my relatives in Gaza City are gearing up for their pre-dawn meal of suhoor in the shadows of destruction.
Ramadan, the ninth and holiest month of the Islamic calendar, serves as a period of unity and introspection for millions. It is a time when Muslims worldwide fast from dawn until sunset, engage in charitable acts, and deepen their spiritual practices, all marked by shared prayers and meals.
However, for my family in Gaza, this sacred month comes laced with the harshness of reality. Their observance not only embodies their faith but also the resilience demonstrated amid tragic circumstances as they endure the ongoing Israeli military operations. Recently escalating, these attacks resumed on March 18, resulting in the deaths of over 700 individuals within a week. Since October 2023, casualties among Palestinians have surpassed 64,000, representing approximately 3% of Gaza’s population, including many of my family members, while hundreds of thousands more have been injured or are missing. Reports emerge of those returning to what remains of their homes — structures missing doors and walls — claiming them as sanctuaries. Others find themselves living in tents on the ruins of what was once a place of refuge. Each individual carries with them the weight of indescribable suffering. This sobering context fills my thoughts as I partake in Ramadan festivities with my family in Maryland.
As the month progresses, the World Food Program reports that almost all of Gaza’s residents endure severe hunger, exacerbated by Israel weaponizing food resources against the population. In conjunction with the Trump administration, Israel has restricted humanitarian aid from reaching Gaza, a move deemed reckless by Oxfam and contributing to a steep rise in the prices of daily essentials within the enclave.
In this dire context, Gazans continue their Ramadan fast, caught in the paradox of celebration amidst suffering. Ramadan represents a blend of feasting and spirituality often marked by hardship. While fasting is a sacred duty, for many, including my family in Gaza, hunger isn’t a chosen sacrifice but a consequence of dire limitations instigated by decades-long sanctions and conflicts.
Yet, in Gaza, resilience remains a hallmark of this spirit.
With numerous mosques reduced to rubble, communities have adapted by creating prayer spaces in greenhouses for evening taraweeh services. Due to the lack of electricity, they rely on traditional night drummers, known as musaharatis. In the absence of fuel, families make traditional kaak date rings using clay ovens, and those displaced gather around communal tables set with lights to share their iftar meals.
“Last Ramadan felt non-existent,” shared my cousin Nermeen in Gaza City via WhatsApp. “Basic ingredients like flour and vegetables were absent, and we were isolated from loved ones. We broke our fast in darkness, alone.”
Despite ongoing challenges, she expresses a sense of cautious optimism for this Ramadan. With a slight reprieve from violence prior to the latest attacks, her family could engage more freely in the neighborhood, even establishing a temporary space for prayer.
These challenging times have led Palestinians in Gaza to celebrate small triumphs — shared meals, transient safety, and decorative lights — as they navigate the grim reality of daily survival. What little they can prepare often comes from aid, such as on our last call, when Nermeen and her family enjoyed malfouf, a cabbage roll filled with rice sourced from a community kitchen. Traditionally, this dish would include meat, a luxury that few can afford amidst the ongoing hardships. Their meals are austere, mostly variations of pasta or canned foods, showing a striking disparity from the usual Ramadan spread.
In another part of town, my cousin Nael and his family break their fast with a simple lentil and rice dish, known as mujadara. In darkness, they share these modest meals, shielding themselves from the remnants of bombed-out homes with tarps. Yet, their spirits remain unbroken. “Ramadan is a time of blessings and generosity. I firmly believe that with patience and prayer, we will find relief,” he maintains, despite the poignant absence of family members lost in the violence.
Meanwhile, in Garara, my cousin Mariam faces additional obstacles. Her husband, currently receiving cancer treatment outside Gaza, leaves her alone to care for their five children while searching for essential medicine and clean water. Our conversation revealed her struggle to procure even simple meals, relying on a local soup kitchen for iftar, as the destruction around her isolates her from community support.
Safety and stability are elusive dreams in Gaza, made painfully clear even before the renewed violence began. Israel’s capability to swiftly sever Gaza’s access to water and food underscores a broader control over its essential needs and autonomy.
During the peak of blockades last February, many Palestinians in the most devastated areas survived on a variant of Gaza’s traditional Ramadan stew, sumagiyya. In the absence of typical greens, they resorted to foraged plants, reminiscent of the sustenance taken during historical moments of displacement in 1948, a year that symbolizes loss for many Palestinians.
Nermeen recently shared her attempt to create ma’roota date bars typically reserved for celebrations. Despite limited ingredients, her adaptation highlights the unwavering spirit of creativity in the face of adversity.
“This is the war version,” she explained, referring to the adjustments made in preparation. Yet, the essence of her efforts shines through.
Images of ingenuity permeate social media as families in Gaza have showcased their culinary adaptations under dire circumstances. Videos showcase large pots of maqlouba cooked amidst the ruins, and creative substitutions for beloved dishes illustrate the indomitable spirit of a people refusing to be erased.
Having spent years documenting the culinary traditions of Palestinian families for The Gaza Kitchen, I understand this persistence to adapt. Years of living under blockades have led to a culinary evolution shaped by necessity and resilience. The act of preparing a traditional meal during times of overwhelming adversity can serve as a profoundly powerful form of resistance.
While Palestinians in Gaza are often characterized as resilient, this characterization can obscure the harsh realities they face and normalize their suffering, granting impunity to those who are responsible. What they exhibit is not mere endurance but a creative defiance, cherishing ordinary moments that provide joy and a sense of control in a landscape overshadowed by violence. This tenacity is encapsulated in the Arabic term, sumood, denoting a steadfastness.
Throughout the past year and a half, navigating the emotional extremes of despair and advocacy has driven me to recreate the cherished dishes of my upbringing: my aunt’s sumagiyya, my mother’s shorabit adas, and the elder’s beloved kishik. Holding onto the familiar, be it food, faith, or tradition, offers a grounding force and strengthens the sense of identity amidst chaos.
For my relatives in Gaza, these traditional foods, prayers, and customs serve as vital threads that uphold their dignity in the most harrowing times. They embody not just a tribute to heritage but a means to assert agency and humanity against the attempts to strip them of these qualities. The varied forms of sumac rumaniyya, purslane sumagiyya, and creatively adapted ma’roota represent much more than simple meals; they affirm a profound link to their homeland, a defiance amidst ongoing erasure, and a commitment to faith that remains unwavering in the face of despair.
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