For decades throughout Gaza, Ramadan had a familiar shared rhythm: the smell of soup rising from kitchens, the sound of plates being set, and children hurrying to the place where everyone would meet. For my family, that place was always my grandma’s house. Now everything feels different. Ramadan still arrives, but something essential is missing. This is the first Ramadan we’ve observed…
This post has been syndicated from Truthout, where it was published under this address.