By Shahad Ali
This article was originally published by Truthout
“This Eid, we will try to live it simply and reclaim even a small part of our traditions,” said one Gaza resident.
Eid al-Adha in Gaza had always been known as the “Big Eid,” given that its celebrations were more extensive than those of Eid al-Fitr. Eid al-Adha, or the “Feast of Sacrifice,” which commemorates Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son as an act of submission to God, is the most important Islamic holiday and begins during the Hajj on the 10th day of the Islamic lunar month of Dhul-Hijjah.
One of the most significant rituals that made it so eagerly anticipated was the act of sacrifice. In the days leading up to Eid, families would visit farms with their children to choose their sacrificial animals — calves or sheep. The streets would fill with trucks carrying these animals, while children ran alongside them, laughing with excitement.
Despite the suffocating siege, the harsh economic conditions, and the soaring prices of sacrificial animals — driven by the scarcity of animal feed in Gaza due to Israeli restrictions on the Kerem Shalom commercial crossing, along with rising import costs — Gazans continued to hold tightly to this ritual. The sacrifice commemorates the story of the Prophet Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son in obedience to God before God replaced his son with a ram. For this reason, families strive to offer a sacrifice whenever possible. Even those facing severe financial hardship often resorted to paying for sacrificial animals in installments. In 2021 alone, the number of sacrificed calves ranged between 13,000 and 15,000, while the number of sheep reached approximately 20,000 to 25,000.
In the past, homes in Gaza were also decorated with items that reflected the spirit of Eid al-Adha, such as models of the Kaaba and small goat figurines. Families would gather around their televisions, watching pilgrims perform the sacred rituals of Hajj — one of the five pillars of Islam — and listening to the recitation of the takbeerat. Some would even call relatives and friends who were fortunate enough to travel to Mecca to perform Hajj, sharing in the spiritual atmosphere from afar.
Markets overflowed with festive foods, including nuts, chocolate, ka’ak (spiced ring-shaped pastries), ma’amoul (butter cookies stuffed with dates or nuts), and halkoum (chewy sweets cut into squares). Children, accompanied by their mothers, eagerly shopped for new clothes in preparation for the celebration. Yet what made Eid al-Adha especially meaningful was what followed the sacrifice itself, which took place immediately after the Eid prayers. Families would gather to prepare and share a traditional breakfast deeply associated with Eid al-Adha: fried liver from the sacrificed calves or sheep, cooked in olive oil and served with saj bread.
Afterward, families would spend hours packaging the meat of the sacrifice and distributing it to relatives and those in need. Moreover, the meat was widely shared in traditional dishes such as kabsa, maqluba, and kebab, reinforcing the sense of generosity and blessing that defines this Eid.
Over the past two years, however, people in Gaza have been deprived of the rituals that once made Eid al-Adha special. For more than 2 million Gazans, the thought of fresh meat became almost unimaginable amid the harsh reality of famine — we did not even have flour. Even simple items like ka’ak and ma’amoul became luxuries beyond reach.
Children were unable to buy new clothes or even go outside, fearing bombardment. Watching pilgrims in Mecca or celebrating here at home was no longer possible, as survival became the only thing occupying people’s minds. Eid lost its meaning and value amid intense bombardment, displacement, and massacres. For us, it became just another day of mourning and suffering — a day in which we painfully remembered how we used to enjoy Eid in the company of our beloved ones and prepare delicious meals from the sacrificial meat.
This year we will welcome Eid al-Adha under a ceasefire. Many people in Gaza had hoped that the ceasefire would enable them to celebrate Eid the way they used to before the war. However, we now find ourselves facing conditions that make it nearly impossible to practice almost any of the rituals that once made this Eid special.
Israel now controls more than half of the Gaza Strip under the so-called “Yellow Line,” preventing hundreds of thousands of Gazans from returning to their homes and forcing them to endure the bitterness of displacement without knowing when they will be able to return. In addition, more than 1 million people are still living in tents under deteriorating conditions after Israel destroyed their homes — the very homes they once decorated for Eid, where the sounds of the takbeerat echoed through the rooms and families gathered around tables filled with dishes prepared from fresh sacrificial meat.
The sacred ritual of animal sacrifice also remains out of reach. Although sheep are sometimes available, they are extremely scarce, and their prices are far beyond what most families can afford. The price of a single sheep can now reach more than $5,000. The war has devastated Gaza’s livestock sector, destroying private farms and all five feed factories. As Middle East Eye reports, “Since the start of the war in October 2023, more than 90 percent of Gaza’s livestock sector has been destroyed or damaged by Israeli attacks and restrictions on the movement of goods and farming supplies, according to Gaza’s Chamber of Commerce and Industry.” And according to statistics from Gaza’s Ministry of Agriculture, 57,000 sheep and goats have perished since the start of the war. Israel has also continued to block the entry of animals and feed needed for farmers to resume production.
In addition, for the third consecutive year, Gazans have been unable to travel to perform Hajj, as Israel continues to restrict the Rafah crossing. Only very limited numbers of travelers are allowed to leave, mainly patients (around 8-10 per day along with their companions). Many in Gaza consider these restrictions a violation of freedom of worship, given that they have long eagerly awaited the opportunity to perform Hajj rituals. Some have waited for many years, as the selection of pilgrims is conducted through a lottery system, with priority traditionally given to elderly people.
Yet despite all this, many people in Gaza remain hopeful. For many, at the very least, this Eid arrives without bombardment and bloodshed. They see this year’s celebration as a chance to revive the spirit of Eid in whatever simple ways they can.
Ayat Hamoudah, 20, told me that she considers this year’s Eid al-Adha far better than the ones she spent during the war, despite the harsh reality of living in a tent after her home was destroyed during the Israeli military operation in her neighborhood, Al-Zaytoun, in December 2023.
Eid al-Adha in 2024 and 2025 passed as though it had never come at all. At that time, bombardment, displacement, and famine were the daily reality. There was not even bread available — so how could we think about meat? We felt none of the spirit of Eid: no new clothes, no sweets, no ka’ak or ma’amoul. The days felt unbearably heavy … This year, the situation feels lighter, with the war paused, no new displacement, and the availability of food and some sweets, despite the soaring prices. But somehow, this Eid still feels incomplete. What is missing is the home that was destroyed, the family gatherings that were shattered by displacement, and the reality of living in tents that do not suit the joy of Eid. Even meat, which we have been deprived of for two years, is still scarce, and when it is available, it is often expensive and frozen. Sacrificial animals are almost nonexistent … This Eid, we will try to live it simply and reclaim even a small part of our traditions. We will gather with our family by the seaside, prepare kebabs from canned meat that comes in humanitarian aid packages, and try to preserve the spirit of Eid al-Adha by decorating the tent, preparing ka’ak and Eid sweets, and gathering to perform Eid al-Adha prayers in the makeshift mosques inside our displacement camp. We will dress up, exchange simple visits, and create moments of joy from what little is available to us.
Meanwhile when I first asked 22-year-old Rihab Abu Raidah how she viewed this Eid, she painfully compared the current situation to her memories of Eid al-Adha before the war in Gaza began.
Before the war, Eid al-Adha was completely different. Our homes were warm and full of life. We decorated them with sheep ornaments and beautiful lights. The whole family gathered without exception, and the house would overflow with joy and guests. The dining table was always filled with everything we loved — sweets and ka’ak. With every visit from relatives and neighbors, more sacrificial meat would arrive until the refrigerator was full. We used to cook our favorite dishes, like grilled meat, and spend our time surrounded by laughter and beautiful family gatherings.
Abu Raidah added that although this Eid comes during a ceasefire, the harsh reality of living in a tent far from her neighborhood of Bani Suheila — now under Israeli control — has made it difficult for her and her family to feel the joy of Eid:
We had hoped that this Eid we would be able to return to our neighborhood, which we miss deeply, but even this simple dream now feels impossible. Of course, this Eid may feel slightly better than the ones we spent during the war. At least the ceasefire has stopped the killing and allowed food to enter, but our main suffering still remains. We have been living away from our land for two years in overcrowded camps in Al-Mawasi, Khan Younis, which lack the most basic necessities of life. In addition to that, we suffer from rodents, insects, and fleas that make life feel like hell.… We cannot celebrate Eid al-Adha as we once did before the war, because the central sacred ritual of sacrificing animals — the tradition the Eid is named after — is now absent, along with the feasts we used to prepare from fresh meat, whose taste we have almost forgotten. However, I will try to clean and decorate our tent, help my mother bake ka’ak, and prepare small boxes of chocolate and sweets to distribute to children.
Despite everything she is enduring, Abu Raidah refuses to give up the opportunity to celebrate Eid in whatever ways her limited resources allow. “Our celebration may seem simple compared to those around the world,” she concluded, “but for me, it is still an important way of preserving hope and resilience — a way of showing that even in the hardest circumstances, we can hold on to the spirit of Eid.”
This article was originally published by Truthout and is licensed under Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0). Please maintain all links and credits in accordance with our republishing guidelines.
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