As the adhan, or call to prayer, blares from my mom’s phone, I gather with her and my dad at the dinner table. I whisper a quick “Bismillah” to myself before taking my first sip of water since 6 a.m., followed by a medjool date. We then commence our iftar with our usual: a tomato soup with freekeh along with sambusas, crispy fried hand-held meat pies stuffed with cinnamon-spiced ground beef. These are just a few of the recipes my family has saved exclusively for Ramadan since I was little.
While this holy month and its foods are deeply familiar to me, it had been a while since I’d experienced the hunger, thirst, and eventual relief after each day’s fasting. That’s because, prior to this year, I hadn’t fasted since 2020. What brought me back to Ramadan this year is also the first thing that has filled my mind each night for the past month just as I’m about to take my first bite: Gaza and its people.
When I was young, Ramadan had always felt more like an obligation than a joyous practice, especially since I never found myself gravitating to the Muslim community in my area. Not having any friends who practiced the same religion as me made me feel like an outcast amongst my own social circle, and left me with a deep sense of insecurity about both my faith and culture.
The only aspect of my culture that didn’t bring me shame was the foods I was brought up with. I relished being raised in a house full of flavor, where home cooked meals were second nature, as was gathering to eat dinner as a family. Biting into sfeeha, individual pizza-like rounds topped with yogurt-marinated beef, or scooping up a bit of ful medames with pita bread after a long day of fasting comforted me when I felt otherwise unsettled by the aspects of myself that were so different from others. I can’t remember a day when I didn’t come home from school and open the front door to the scent of warm spices filling the air, pots clamoring against each other, and my mom working hard to get a fresh meal on the table for dinner, especially during Ramadan; her emphasis on cooking and feeding the family is one of the ways she has always expressed her love for us.
As much as I loved the food we ate during Ramadan, I was less convinced about the fasting part, and I would complain regularly as both a teenager and a young adult. “Fasting has to come from your heart and soul,” my mom always responded. “If you’re not fully into it, not fully committed, then your fast has no meaning.”
I continued to grapple with the religious requirement, often seeing it as more of an inconvenience and unable to connect to the deeper meaning of the holy month. So eventually I took her message to heart and quit observing the holiday. Despite feeling a strong connection to my culture and religion as an adult, I didn’t feel compelled to fast. The only option that made sense to me was to opt out completely.
But this year is different. Ever since the attacks on Gaza began after the events of October 7th, I’ve found myself looking to my faith more and more. I’ve been in a near constant state of fear and helplessness as I’ve watched the news and learned of the killings of more than 40 of my very own family members in Gaza, and worried for the lives of my remaining family there, not to mention millions of innocent civilians.
As it became clear quite early on that this would not end anytime soon, I began thinking ahead to Ramadan. How would the people of Gaza fare during the holy month in these conditions? And for the first time, I felt something inside of me that I hadn’t felt before: a profound obligation to participate in the fast. Perhaps, through the act of fasting, I could feel connected to my people during a time of such complete devastation. And maybe reconnecting with my faith in this way could help me feel hope when hope was all but otherwise lost.
I tried my best to immerse myself in the spirit of Ramadan this year, paying close attention to my Palestinian mother as she prepared the pre- and post-fast meals for suhoor and iftar. Every day, she’d gather simple ingredients Palestinians have used for centuries—cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley, chickpeas, and, of course, olives and their oil—to make traditional recipes like salata falahiyeh (farmers salad) and hummus. Almost every night, I would help her roll dough for sambusas and fill them with meat before my dad fried them. I hovered close to her, making note of how she prepared dishes like sumac-heavy msakhan, one of my personal favorites, and sweet qatayef, semolina pancakes folded and stuffed with cream or nuts, fried, and dunked in simple syrup.
Along the way, I sensed something different in her compared to all the times I’ve watched her in the kitchen before. Her duty to cook for her family seemed heightened, strengthened by the knowledge that many mothers in Gaza no longer have the same privilege. Cooking these recipes that are so close to her heart and passing them down to me also took on a new dimension—a defiant attempt to keep her culture alive while others are attempting to erase it.
Our Ramadan this year changed in another important way, too. In all the years before, our meals to break our daily fast were private—shared by my family, never with my friends. I felt compelled to invite others outside of the community to share what I could about both my Palestinian heritage and my religion. I hosted an iftar for a few of my close non-Muslim friends from college and graduate school in hopes that opening up our doors and inviting them to join in on this practice would build a more intimate understanding of both our religious traditions and the wider Palestinian community, strengthening both as a result.
My mom and I spent all day cooking together, with maqlubeh as the centerpiece of the meal. While I worried the evening might be awkward, especially given the weight of the war that hovered over it, my friends moved through the night as if they were at home, connecting with my parents and going for seconds, even thirds. The evening was a success, but also left me feeling conflicted. Layered on top of the fulfillment and a sense of purpose that the dinner created for me was a lingering sense of guilt for being able to cook this feast and gather with friends simply because I live here and not in Gaza.
It’s a strange feeling to use food in this way, to actively set out to make what those in Gaza can no longer enjoy. I’ve long struggled with the knowledge that while I’m Palestinian by blood, I grew up an American and was therefore spared my Gazan family’s suffering. No matter how bad it gets, they never seem to give up. And if they can remain committed to a holy month of fasting even in the face of starvation—and many of them have—then there’s no reason I can’t do the same with all that I have.
My decision to fast this year is not worthy of any sort of praise; after all, fasting is one of the five pillars of Islam that most Muslims participate in every year without even thinking twice about. But looking back on this month of Ramadan, my fasts have acted as a symbolic reminder of the unrelenting suffering Palestinians have been experiencing day after day. At the same time, the breaking of those fasts each night with ample plates of food has been a painful reminder that my choice to observe Ramadan this year will not save a single soul in Gaza. To fast, to cook with my mother, and to sit down with family and friends over the foods of my culture is not a resolution, but a small yet sincere way to honor the Palestinian people—the tens of thousands that have been killed, those that remain, my family—and keep them in my heart and soul, committed and with meaning. With that, I hold on to hope that someday soon they’ll see freedom.
