Ramadan
Ramadan evenings in Gaza once carried a spirit unlike anywhere else… a spirit all their own.
On those nights, time seemed to move with a gentle slowness, as if it wanted to give people a little longer to feel joy.
Minutes before the call to Maghrib prayer, the streets would hum with soft urgency—quick footsteps, voices calling from windows, and the aroma of food drifting from homes like warm stories of family and anticipation. Tables were set with care—not because there was abundance, but because love filled every empty space.
When the call to prayer rose, a brief silence would fall… a silence that felt like gratitude itself. Then life would begin again—quiet laughter, whispered prayers, and conversations weaving gently over simple dishes filled with contentment.
After iftar, the alleys would come alive. Children ran endlessly with joy, carrying their small lanterns as if they held fallen stars in their hands. Their laughter filled the air, while the elders sat outside their homes, sipping tea and sharing stories that never seemed to end… stories of Ramadans past, of days that were simpler yet still alive in their hearts.
And the night in Ramadan felt different… calmer, closer. Lanterns hanging between houses cast a tender glow, and the breeze carried a softness that seemed to wash away the day’s fatigue. In those moments, everything felt reassuring… as if the whole city breathed slowly, resting gently in time’s embrace.
Those evenings were never just passing moments… they were memories being woven, feelings planted quietly in the heart. They were a shared warmth—when everyone knew one another, when everyone shared the same simple joy.
And now… when those memories return, they return not as images alone, but as a full sensation… the echo of laughter, the scent of fresh bread, the glow of a lantern swaying in a narrow passage, and hearts gathered without fear… simply to live Ramadan as it was meant to be lived: in closeness, serenity, and peace.
They were not just evenings…
They were an entire life, captured in a single Ramadan night. 
Zaki A Sharqawi