ON 31 December last year, my family gathered with our closest friends and relatives in a former clothing store in Gaza City. The space had been repurposed into an event hall. We were there not just to bring in the New Year but to celebrate my sister Noor’s wedding.
The clothing store had been given an elegant makeover. There were clear glass tables decorated with small floral centrepieces. The light-coloured walls had accents of dark marble, and long white curtains hung from gold rods.
We invited around 100 guests, but not all were able to attend. Some could not find transportation, while others did not have cash to pay for a ride. A simple act like reaching a place for a celebration has become a challenge in the Gaza Strip.
Noor is 26 – older than me by almost five years. She wore a white dress, although she struggled to find one she liked. The options were limited, and the prices were high.
My grandmother always wanted to see Noor as a bride, because she is the oldest of my three siblings. Unfortunately, she didn’t live to see her wish fulfilled. My grandparents were killed earlier in the war when Israel bombed their house in the al-Shuja’iya neighbourhood of Gaza City.
When my mother and my aunts stepped onto the stage to dance with Noor on her wedding night, their eyes welled up with tears. They didn’t want to ruin the moment, but everyone knew the picture was incomplete without my grandmother. We loved her so much.
Still, we served kunafeh, a Palestinian dessert, and danced. There is no wedding without music and dancing. Even with grief, life continues. But Israel’s destruction and suffocation of Gaza following 7 October 2023 has reshaped everything, including people’s traditions and happiness.
Weddings before the war
Before 7 October 2023, life in Gaza was never perfect. The Israeli occupation’s restrictions were present in all aspects of life, from control over border crossings to repeated attacks. We felt constantly watched, limited, and powerless, as if every simple decision, every breath, required permission.
Despite the difficult conditions, weddings were large, joyous affairs where families, friends, and neighbours gathered to sing, dance, and share happiness. Palestinian folk songs and dabke music were played loudly, accompanied by drums, clapping, and ululation. Groups of men or women would line up and dance, stamping the ground in rhythm with the music.
Tables were set up with different kinds of sweets. Some families would serve savoury pastries. People were constantly in motion between meals, greetings, and dancing. The atmosphere was alive and filled with warmth and laughter.
Despite the restrictions the Israeli occupation imposed on our lives, almost everything a couple needed to get married used to be available.
Wedding dresses came in many styles, and catering services offered a range of options. There were wedding halls of different sizes on Al-Rashid Street, which runs along Gaza’s seafront. The road was lined with cafes and restaurants. In the evenings, the area is filled with visitors and passersby. Loud music drifted out from the wedding halls, especially in the summertime, when most people got married.
These halls were elegant. Their walls were painted soft colours, golden chandeliers hung from the ceilings, and large, red drapes framed their windows. In some halls, the windows looked directly onto the sea, and there were open terraces where people could go to enjoy the fresh breeze.
Today, those halls are rubble, their lights and music replaced by darkness and silence.
Planning amid rubble and scarcity
Many couples who were engaged before the genocide began had no choice but to cancel their celebrations. The halls they had reserved were destroyed or closed, savings meant for weddings vanished or were spent on trying to survive, and the future became entirely unpredictable.
Some people still chose to get married during the war, believing that life, in some sense, must go on. But they were unable to hold even the smallest celebrations due to incessant bombardment, displacement, and economic collapse.
Since the so-called ceasefire, people have gradually begun to revive their celebrations, but in simpler, more modest forms. Life has to go on. It is a way of asserting our strength and resilience.
My sister got engaged to her fiancé, Ramzi, a month before the so-called ceasefire on 10 October 2025, but she refused to get married during the war. She said she wouldn’t be able to feel joy while others were being killed and bombs continued to fall.
Since the so-called ceasefire, people have gradually begun to revive their celebrations, but in simpler, more modest forms. Life has to go on. It is a way of asserting our strength and resilience.
Some people are now offering their homes or businesses – ones that haven’t also been reduced to rubble – as event venues to make money amid the near-total collapse of Gaza’s economy. Finding one for Noor and Ramzi’s wedding close to where we are living now in Gaza City, and that was affordable, was difficult.
The modest clothing store was one of the few available options. It costs double or even triple what the price would have been before 7 October – and a huge sum in Gaza today. But the price also covered photography, decorations, and electricity, which have become extremely expensive due to fuel shortages caused by Israeli restrictions.
The owner of the hall required part of the payment in cash, which was an added challenge. Cash has become difficult to obtain in Gaza. When it is available, the banknotes are worn and old because Israel is not allowing new ones to enter. Ramzi had to rely on money brokers who charge high commission fees to withdraw cash.
Gaza has become an expensive place for almost everything. Even basic food, once affordable for all classes, is now sold at prices many people cannot afford.
Ultimately, while preparations for my sister’s wedding took about two months, the celebration lasted only a few hours. It was a special, joyful day that brought families together after two years of separation and pain. And despite the difficulties, my sister and her fiancé were grateful to be together.
“I forgot the exhaustion and the hard moments when I saw Noor in white,” Ramzi said.
How to start a life?
My sister’s story is not unique.
My friend, Hala al-Khatib, 20, got engaged to Muhanad Alwar, 21, on 9 September last year. They were married on 26 December in a small, modest ceremony at Hala’s home in Nuseirat, central Gaza.
They chose not to celebrate in a hall since, during the genocide, Muhanad lost three of his siblings in Israeli airstrikes. “There is no taste of joy without them,” he said.
Beyond grief, the financial burden was overwhelming. “The hardest thing, besides the absence of Muhanad’s siblings, was the high cost of preparations, even when the wedding is modest,” said Hala.
Four months later, on 9 January, amid the so-called ceasefire, the Israeli military called Muhanad and warned him he had five minutes to leave the house where he and Hala were living. Outside, Muhanad watched as the Israeli missile struck.
Now, Hala and Muhanad live in a tent. They managed to be together, but they are uncertain about their future.
“We bought everything new – carpets, curtains, mattresses, tables. It cost over $3,000. Now it is rubble,” Hala said.
Now, Hala and Muhanad live in a tent. They managed to be together, but they are uncertain about their future. Hala wants a big family, but “I won’t bring a child into a life that still lacks the basics they need,” she said. “Milk, nappies, and vaccines are all essentials that are unavailable most of the time in Gaza.”
Another friend, Dima Hatab, got engaged during the ceasefire that lasted from mid-January to mid-March last year. Dima and her fiancé, Mohammed Abu Sharekh, believed the war had ended. But when fighting resumed, they were forced to postpone their wedding multiple times.
“If we got married, we would have nowhere to live,” Dima said. “Rental prices went up after the war returned.”
Eventually, after the second ceasefire in October, they managed to find a small apartment in Deir al-Balah and held a simple wedding at her family home.
“I didn’t want to make it extravagant, out of respect for those who lost their loved ones,” she said. “And the cost of the halls was too high. It was better to spend that money on more essential needs.”
The right to fall in love
Weddings have resumed in Gaza, but the restrictions that existed before have only tightened. Many loved ones are gone. Homes have been destroyed. Livelihoods have disappeared. Joy, while still present, feels incomplete.
Yet people continue to marry. Not because they are free from grief, but because marriage is sunnat al-hayyah, as we say in Arabic – the natural course of life. They have the right to fall in love, to marry, and to build a family.
Even in these hard conditions, people hold on to this tradition. They resumed weddings in an attempt to create happiness in a reality filled with pain and loss. Marriage remains a beautiful part of life. But in Gaza, it is no longer a simple step. It is a decision weighed against loss, risk, and an unpredictable future.
Edited by Eric Reidy.
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The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.
