Our Dream Was a Meal: Ramadan in Gaza. Nuestro Sueño Era una Comida: Ramadán en Gaza. ENG ESP

Our Dream Was a Meal: Ramadan in Gaza
March 12 2026
Author: 
Sujood Alkhour
Letters from Gaza

Ramadan 2023 was the last Ramadan to pass peacefully in Gaza. Ramadan is a blessed month in which Muslims worship through prayer, charity, and helping those in need. People welcome its arrival by hanging colorful decorations, lighting lanterns, and preparing special foods, drinks, and sweets. Before dawn, people eat the pre-dawn meal (suhoor), usually consisting of light foods such as boiled eggs with olive oil and yogurt, hummus, tea, and plenty of water. From dawn until sunset, they abstain from food and drink. At sunset, families gather to prepare traditional Palestinian dishes, salads, soups, and more. Everyone eagerly awaits the moment of breaking the fast (iftar) to enjoy their favorite foods, including my favorite, maqluba.

One of the most famous dishes prepared by women in Gaza is maqluba, a traditional Palestinian dish made with chicken, vegetables, and rice. My mother would prepare the dish by cutting the chicken into pieces and boiling it in a pot with salt, cardamom, and bay leaves. She would prepare another pot for the rice, seasoning it with a blend of spices. Next, she would chop the vegetables: potatoes, eggplant, onions, and tomatoes. She would add whole garlic cloves to the pan and fry the vegetables one by one. After that, she would prepare a pot for cooking the maqluba, greasing it with butter or oil and carefully arranging the vegetables at the bottom. Then she would add the chicken pieces, followed by the rice, and finally pour in the chicken broth.

When it began to boil, my mother would reduce the heat so that the maqluba would not burn. My older sister would call out, “Sujud, come wash the salad ingredients so I can chop them.” I would quickly wash the cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers, lemons, arugula, and red cabbage. My sister would prepare the salad, and we'd all wait eagerly for the delicious maqluba to be ready.

Before the Maghrib prayer, I'd prepare the table by bringing a large, shallow dish for the maqluba. My mother would carry the hot pot and flip it over onto the dish, the action from which the dish gets its name, maqluba meaning "upside down." I'd set out the salad, yogurt, spoons, and cold drinks. After resting for a while following iftar, my brother would bring us some chips from the grocery store, and we would eat them together, enjoying the simple contenment in our lives. 

When the war came, everything in our lives changed, including our maqluba. My family was forced to flee from northern Gaza to the south. It was a grueling journey. We lived in a school for displaced people for nine months; it was overcrowded and lacked basic necessities. Then we moved to a tent for six months, enduring the bitter cold of winter and the scorching heat of summer.

The population of southern Gaza increased due to the influx of displaced people, and prices skyrocketed because of the border closures. Everything became expensive, and sometimes we couldn't even afford bread. There were days when goods were not only expensive but completely unavailable. We longed for vegetables, fruit, and meat, but we had nothing but lentils, bread, and a small amount of rice.

During the holy month of Ramadan in 2025, the border crossings closed, and vegetables, fruits, meat—everything—disappeared. Famine spread throughout Gaza. Whatever little remained was prohibitively expensive, making it impossible for most people to buy it. Across Gaza, mothers began making a simplified version of maqluba without its essential ingredients, calling it “fake maqluba.”

One day, my sisters asked my mother for maqluba, even if it was a fake one. My mother asked, “How can I make it without vegetables, meat, and spices?” My sister added, “How will we eat it without yogurt and salad?”

My mother went to the kitchen and started putting out rice and some spices made from tasteless leaves. She added a few slices of onion, which cost as much as gold, and then turned on the gas. My brother asked, “How will we eat it without salad?” My little sister replied, “I'll make you some hot sauce and add water and salt to it as an appetizer.” Everyone eagerly waited for the call to the Maghrib prayer so we could eat the fake maqluba. My mother served it, and we all began eating. It was not as delicious as the maqluba we used to have, but we ate it anyway, telling ourselves it was enough. During this war and famine, nothing more was possible.

For snacks, we had fake chips made from pasta. I would soak the pasta in water for two minutes, sprinkle it with flour, and then fry it in oil until it became crispy like chips. I would let it cool, sprinkle it with a little salt, and then we would eat it. My little sister said it was delicious, but she asked, “When will the crossing open so we can eat real chips? When will we eat crunchy snacks and other treats?” The rest of the family would smile, their faces marked with sadness, and reply, “Haven't you gotten used to everything in Gaza?”

Yes, they were right. In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to pain, separation, sadness, tears, screams, food shortages, and making up imaginary meals just to survive. Our dream was a meal with all its ingredients. Our dream was delicious, crunchy chips.

When the ceasefire was announced in Gaza City, and one of the conditions of the agreement was the entry of food aid and goods, everyone cheered with joy. We'll have real food, real chicken and meat, and we'll eat real maqluba! My sister exclaimed, “We'll eat maqluba with salad! We'll eat chips and Pringles!”

In some ways, Ramadan 2026 is different. We now have access to the food and drinks we were deprived of for years. Yes, prices are still high, but seeing these goods in the markets, even if we can't buy them, gives us some hope.

Our family eagerly awaited gathering for iftar. On the fourth day of Ramadan, my mother cooked maqluba in her usual way: two layers of vegetables, then chicken, then rice, served with salad and yogurt. We all gathered around the dish we had longed for. My siblings took pictures and laughed together, we ate with gusto, and drank soda afterward. We savored it all, feeling as though life had returned to us.

Between iftar and suhoor, we would usually eat chips and snacks and drink coffee. My brother brought us some Pringles and we laughed together, remembering the macaroni chips we used to make during the famine, wondering, how on earth did we eat them? How did we even make them? How did we manage to call them chips? Then we turned back to our snacks, enjoying them as though we had returned to life from the brink of death. 

These days, the occupation forces control and repeatedly close the crossings. With every closure, we fear that famine will return, or that this Ramadan will become like the last. My mother says, “Let's stock up on some things before they run out and prices skyrocket.” My brother replies that it would cost a lot of money, and my sister adds, “And if we're displaced again, how will we carry them?”

We continue fasting, waiting for the call to the Maghrib prayer so we can break our fast with the meals we love. Yet the news of the crossings closing again shocks the residents of Gaza City. We live every day in tension, anxiety, and fear that famine will return and deprive us of our most basic right.  

The policy of closing the crossings suffocates us, leaving us unable to act while they remain shut and uncertain about what tomorrow will bring. This is our life in Gaza. Steadfastness, fatigue, suffering. A dish with all its ingredients was our dream.

About the author:

Sujood Alkhour is a translator and aspiring linguist from Gaza. She holds a bachelor’s degree in English language and translation and dreams of pursuing a master’s degree in applied linguistics. Sujood ranked among the top of her class and is known for her academic excellence and strong writing skills.

She is deeply connected to her homeland and passionate about sharing the untold stories of Gaza — the resilience, hope, and struggles of its people. Through storytelling, she hopes to reflect the voices behind the headlines, especially those who are often seen as just numbers. Sujood believes in the power of words to inspire change and make the world listen.