Neither here nor there
Creating Ramadan from Gaza’s Aftermath
There isn’t a manual for parenting; no matter how many best-selling books you read, you will spend more than half of your time guessing what to do and, ultimately, just wing it.
You only start getting better at it because, no matter what age your children become. They’ll always expect you to shield and protect them, to know or predict what’s to come. You get better because you have to.
As a millennial immigrant mom, the unknown was my life’s only constant. This uncertainty always made me feel like I was failing even when I succeeded, and it followed me like my shadow.
As a Muslim who chose to move away from organized religion, observing Ramadan has been one of the best things from my childhood that I have been able to share with my children.
Ramadan meant so much to me growing up in Gaza: the infinite happiness and joy it brought to everyone, the blanket of mercy it spread all over the city, and how it revived the long-lost happiness in the neighborhoods. It’s impossible to explain how an occupied and besieged city can fast, pray, sing and dance, love and embrace all through one month. It’s even harder to pass this sense of community from Gaza and Ramadan to my children living in the US.
As a multi-ethnic Palestinian-Irish American Family, I have to compete with a chubby and generous Santa Claus every year. Of course, not only is eating encouraged during Christmas season, but Santa brings gifts along with snow and hot cocoa. It’s pretty hard to compete with that in a child’s eyes.
For the sake of feminism and, of course, God, I came up with a fictional figure I called “The Ramadan Star”. She is just like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. The Ramadan Star checks on the children and listens to their wishes, but only when they do good deeds. Which I thought was a little less creepy than the old man who is watching all the time and asks kids have sit on his lap.
My children get a notebook where they write their good deeds towards others and each other. One year, my youngest daughter wrote, “I said hello to Siri.” Clearly, I had to explain the meaning of a “good deed,” but they got the point eventually.
During the pandemic, I had the chance to master my hummus recipe. I still can’t match the hummus I enjoyed in Gaza, but it’s enough to bribe the household to prepare the table while our TV blasts Athan.
I gave the kids the choice of whether they would like to fast or not. They seemed very eager to participate in something they had seen me do every year. That was until the school was serving donuts for breakfast. Apparently, Ramadan forgives like that.
Ramadan in Gaza wasn’t always pleasant, of course. Almost every year, there was the threat of Israeli airstrikes during the holy month, a “tradition” that I am glad to leave behind. Of course, just because I’m not there doesn’t mean it still doesn’t happen. While I am grateful that my children will never have to experience it first-hand, social media makes it impossible to shield them from it completely. So, instead, every time footage circulates of Gaza being showered with airstrikes or worshippers in Al Aqsa being beaten, it’s an opportunity to have a sad but frank discussion with our kids.
If anything, the ability to celebrate, give, and love after experiencing or witnessing such barbarism only shows the resilience of Palestinians, something I have been trying to show my family. It’s a sad piece of Ramadan that tightens the community and strengthens our ability to resist oppression.
Every October, it becomes impossible to avoid Christmas decorations almost everywhere. As one might imagine, it’s not quite the same as Ramadan. So, while my husband and I have never been huge fans of large, garish inflatable decorations in our yard for any holiday, there aren’t many choices when it comes to Ramadan. So, every year we bring out the large inflatable Ramadan decorations that welcome the entire neighborhood all year long. It’s certainly not difficult for our relatively conservative neighbors to know where the Muslim family lives.
While our celebration of Ramadan certainly isn’t the most traditional, I made peace with the fact that new life deserves new creation. Sometimes when it becomes difficult to follow old traditions, it may just mean it’s time to stumble your way into making new ones.
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This blog post is part of the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of Arabs as writers and scholars. Please click here to read yesterday’s blog post by Nevine Elshazly.
