Eid al-Adha was always a sacred ritual for our family.
It wasn’t just a day — it was a season that began months in advance. It started with the purchase of the udhiyah, or the sacrificial lamb, which we’d raise with care — feeding it, brushing its coat, tending to it as if it were part of the family. As Eid approached, our days grew more hectic: the house had to be spotless, the furniture cleaned, sweets prepared just right, and new clothes bought and laid out. The echo of the Eid takbirat would fill our home, spill into the alleyways, and vibrate across the neighborhood.
My siblings and I would fall asleep beside our new clothes, too excited to rest, whispering and giggling, waiting desperately for the first light of dawn.
My father always woke us early for the Eid prayer, while my mother slipped out quietly to my brother’s grave, whispering, “Happy Eid in paradise, dear.”
We used to take turns watering the udhiyah, brushing its fur, feeding it clovers, and playing with it until the very last moment. I remember how my father, knowing how hard it was for me, would gently ask me to close my eyes when the time came. Watching its blood spill on the ground was always one of the hardest parts as a child.
But even then, I understood the deeper meaning of the sacrifice — that it wasn’t only a ritual, but a gesture of compassion. A moment of community, generosity, and remembrance of those in need.
As soon as the meat was cut, my father would begin packing it into generous portions for our neighbors, relatives, and the poor.
That was the first time I truly tasted the joy of giving.
When the work was done, we’d gather for brunch — usually fried meat, light and golden. The rest of the day would unfold in waves: relatives and neighbors visiting, laughter echoing through rooms, sweets passed from hand to hand, and warm wishes exchanged.
That was our Eid. Every year.
But now — this is not the first, nor the second, but the fourth Eid under fire.
We are not sacrificing the udhiyah — we are the ones being slaughtered.
We are not celebrating Eid in new clothes — we are dying in them.
We are not holding our children’s hands — we are burying them.
We are not praying with open hearts — we are trembling in ruins, afraid even to lift our eyes to the sky.
We are not welcoming guests into our homes — we are sheltering in tents, if we’re lucky enough to still have one.
We are not embracing our loved ones — we are standing among tombstones, unsure which grave to visit first.
We are not sharing the meat of the udhiyah — we are starving, trapped in a land where survival itself has become a miracle.
The genocide has not only accelerated the killing machine — it has crushed the spirit of our sacred rites.
For the second year in a row, we won’t be able to offer a sacrifice.
A kilo of meat that once cost $6 before October 7 now costs over $150 — if you can even find it. Local farms lie in rubble. Livestock are gone. Poultry farms have shut down. Since October 7, the Israeli forces have barred the entry of sacrificial animals. The cattle that remain now cost more than $5,000, far beyond anyone’s reach.
Most families in Gaza haven’t tasted red or white meat in months. We are among them.
Our last bite was during the brief, fragile truce.
Since March 2, the blockade has tightened into a noose. Even canned food has become a luxury beyond our reach.
This Eid, our family sat around asking the same haunting question: What tiny morsel of food could possibly bring back even a hint of the Eid spirit?
My little nephew, Bader, interrupted our conversation and said, with a hopeful grin, “Frozen canned meat would be great.”
But he doesn’t yet understand.
Canned food no longer exists.
Shelves are bare.
People are dying from hunger.
My mother replied, her voice soft but firm, “I’ll scavenge for a few cans of chickpeas. It might be enough to match the mood, even a little.”
My nephew Ahmad, who has been raising two chickens since the beginning of the genocide, nodded quietly. Then he said, with gentle innocence, “Don’t think of my chickens. They won’t be our sacrifice. I’ve been raising them since the war started. They have to survive with me.”
His words fell like a hush over the room.
Despite the weight of it all, my father — who has never once skipped this sacred tradition since he became a man — broke the silence and said,
“Thank God we managed to secure our meal.”
But across Gaza, hundreds of thousands have nothing left.
While the Arab and Islamic world contemplates what kind of meat to serve this Eid, Gaza is clinging to breath.
While families elsewhere prepare their Eid feasts, Gazan families are digging through rubble.
While Muslims around the globe prepare to slaughter their udhiyah, the people of Gaza are the sacrifice itself.
