(RNS) — The last 10 nights of Ramadan are the most sacred of the year. They hold the promise of peace, of mercy, of divine closeness.
They are the nights when the Quran was revealed, in which fate is decreed, in which Muslims stay awake seeking the blessings of a single moment — Laylatul Qadr — that is believed to be better than a thousand months. These are nights that have been marked by stillness and serenity, by the whispers of the faithful turning to God in prayer.
But this year, they are marked by the screams of Gaza.
Ramadan began under the weight of suffering. The people of Gaza have been starving under siege, the people of Sudan dying in silence, and across the world, Muslims have been carrying the heaviness of injustice. But as the month progressed, it felt, for a brief moment, like at least one kind of grief had lessened. The images of shattered bodies pulled from rubble were not appearing every night the way they had in previous months.
The horror had not stopped, but the media’s attention had faded. There was a short-lived, uneasy quiet.
Then the horror returned in full force. Israel carried out one of the deadliest nights of bombing in recent months, killing more than 400 people, including 174 children, according to the Gaza Health Ministry. Just before the holiest nights of the year, Gaza was plunged into another nightmare.
The bodies of Palestinians killed in Israeli army airstrikes are brought to Shifa hospital in Gaza City, March 18, 2025. (AP Photo/Abdel Kareem Hana)
It is one thing to enter these sacred nights carrying the burden of grief from a long and painful war. It is another thing entirely to enter them reeling from a fresh massacre. These nights are meant to be filled with worship, reflection and peace. But how does one find peace while the world allows this to happen?
This is not the first time Gaza has been bombed during Ramadan. There is a pattern to this violence, a deliberate cruelty in timing attacks to coincide with moments meant for prayer and rest. Year after year, Israeli forces have stormed Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. They have fired tear gas and rubber bullets at worshippers in the middle of the night. Israelis have escalated bombings in Gaza. They have ramped up home demolitions, and settler violence has increased in the West Bank.
And each time, the world has moved on. The world expects Palestinians to suffer in silence.
The people of Gaza do not get silence. They get the sound of bombs falling, the roar of buildings collapsing, the unbearable quiet that follows a missile strike when the screams have not yet begun.
For those of us watching from afar, it feels almost impossible to separate this grief from the rituals of the last 10 nights. Fasting is meant to cultivate patience and empathy. But how does one fast knowing that in Gaza, starvation is not a test of faith but a tool of war?
The long nights of prayer are meant to bring inner peace. But how does one pray while imagining the final moments of a child trapped beneath the rubble?
As the sun sets, Palestinians sit at a large table surrounded by the rubble of destroyed homes and buildings as they gather for iftar, the fast-breaking meal, on the first day of Ramadan in Rafah, southern Gaza Strip, March 1, 2025. (AP Photo/Abdel Kareem Hana)
Charity is a pillar of Ramadan, a way to give relief to those in need. But how does one give when humanitarian aid is being deliberately blocked, when food is being kept out, when medicine is being bombed before it can reach the sick and wounded?
The Quran, which Muslims seek to immerse themselves in during these nights, is meant to be a guide for justice. But how do its words land in a world where oppression is not only tolerated but funded and enabled?
This is the dissonance of Ramadan this year. It is a time meant for serenity, but how does one find it in the midst of a genocide? It is a time meant for renewal, but how does one seek renewal while entire families are being erased?
These nights are often described as nights of peace, when the angels descend and the world is filled with divine tranquility. But Gaza has no peace. And perhaps the hardest part of this reality is knowing that it is not only the bombs that have stolen it, but the silence of those who have chosen to do nothing.
People around the world will spend the last 10 nights in devotion, seeking forgiveness, seeking hope and seeking meaning. But the people of Gaza will spend them searching for food, searching for medicine, searching for their children under the rubble.
And those of us who bear witness to this must ask: How will history remember us? As those who saw and turned away? Or as those who did everything in their power to stand for those who had nowhere left to stand?
The last 10 nights of Ramadan are the most powerful of the year. They shape destinies. They mark the end of one cycle and the beginning of another. The fate of Gaza is being written in real time. And so is the world’s response.