PALESTINE
A LETTER FROM GAZA
“Do not stop celebrating. Celebrate for yourselves, but also for us. Remember us, for we too once celebrated. We had beautiful moments. Please, remember.”
I post the letter below, verbatim, on behalf of a friend in Gaza, who chooses to be identified as Mona.
A Message from a Mother, Sister, and Friend in Gaza to the World on New Year’s Eve
Do not stop celebrating. Celebrate for yourselves, but also for us. Remember us, for we too once celebrated. We had beautiful moments. Please, remember.
In Gaza, a new year is approaching, the second one shadowed by war, death, and destruction. We have lost more friends, loved ones, and neighbors. Humanity is lost, and our trust in the world. The loneliness grows heavier, and the catastrophe seems endless.
Even if this war ends, who will heal the wounds left on our shattered hearts?
What will I do this year? What was I doing on this day last year? And the year before that?
For me, the first month of the year has always been special. My only child was born in January, a month shared with the birthdays of my siblings and also some of their children. Even my parents’ wedding anniversary falls this month.
The beginning of the year used to be a time of joy for our family — a season of celebrations, birthdays, and cherished memories. It was a time of happiness, births, and reunions. We would compete to host the best celebration, racing to invite the family to gather in our homes.
My brother, an avid cook, loved preparing new dishes with his wife. On New Year’s Eve, they would create a feast and bring it to my mother’s house, inviting everyone to join. Every year was extraordinary. All of us, together with my parents, made it my favorite moment of the year. It recharged my spirit for the challenges ahead. When I faced hardships, I’d remind myself of those family gatherings on New Year’s Eve and the possibility of new children joining our circle. Those warm memories carried me through so much.
But my brother is gone now. His wonderful wife is a widow, and their four children are entering the next year and the rest of their lives without a father. His absence has left a gaping wound in our hearts — a fire that no comfort can extinguish.
To begin a new year with an incomplete family is to know your life will never be the same. You are no longer the person you once were.
What did we do last year when the new year arrived amidst the height of war? I remember little, only that I cried a lot. I said aloud that I couldn’t imagine starting a new year displaced, sitting in darkness, listening to the radio powered by battery, clinging to hope for a miracle that would end the war. I wanted nothing more than to return to my home, to my family and friends, even if Gaza was in ruins. I only wanted to reunite with them, to hold them tightly in one collective embrace and cry together.
The year arrived, but we weren’t together. We all cried alone, each retreating to a private corner of solitude. While the world celebrated with fireworks, we burned — our bodies, our hearts, our souls.
Now, just hours separate us from another new year. This morning, my child told me he feels optimistic. He believes he might celebrate his birthday this year at our home. I don’t share his optimism, but he is just a child. I can’t weigh him down with the despair that has taken root in my heart. Maybe he’s right. I hope he is.
What will I do this year? I will remember the last time we celebrated the new year together in Gaza. It was a beautiful day with my friends and my son. We drove around the streets of Gaza, rolled up the windows, and played our favorite songs. We sang along, laughing at my off-key voice, and I promised to stop trying to sing. We took countless photos, debating which filter to use, and laughing again — never knowing it would be our last time. We didn’t know we were saying goodbye to Gaza. When I returned home that evening, I found my family waiting to celebrate as we had done for years.
This year, I will scroll through the photos, as I often do when yearning for a sense of normalcy. When I see a photo of my brother, I will hide it from my mother to prevent our collective weeping. When I come across a picture of a friend killed in the war, I will retreat to my corner — the one where light doesn’t reach — to cry alone.
This is how the new year will pass: with loss, tears, and more blood. With death, illness, and despair. However, promise that you will celebrate for us.
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