In Gaza, there is another Mecca and another Kaaba, to which martyrs arrive in shrouds, and around its ruins, the sweeping death toll circles seventy times a day. In Gaza, people move between graves and refugee camps seven times a week. In Gaza, today, a nation floods towards its martyrs with tears, cries, regret, and pain. In Gaza today, the people turn towards God in throngs, with no wealth, no security, no food, and no water. In Gaza today, the pilgrims to God are those whose souls were torn by the rockets of death and whose bodies were shredded by the hellfire of bombs, as their fresh spirits melted on the altar of freedom.

In Gaza today, there are copies of Arafat, mountains of rubble surround innocent bodies whose hopes betrayed them, and their dreams of dignity were shattered. In Gaza today, people throw stones at the enemies of God and their enemies, stones sanctified by time. In Gaza today, people sleep in Mina, in graves, streets, and on the sides of the road, waiting for the meeting with God. The pilgrims in Gaza drink from the cups of hunger, thirst, and all shades of fear and dread.

In Gaza today, there are complicated rituals for pilgrims whose worship is sanctified by blood. These worship rituals are intricate and exhausting, woven together with seven decades of suffering, summarized by deep, resonating explosions over seven months, followed by seven more. In Gaza today, there are sacrifices made by humans—close to children and women, fresh, pure flesh emanating the fragrance of musk and amber, its color like that of saffron.

We, the people of Gaza, Arabs, have our own pilgrimage, our own rites, and our own rituals that we perform to draw closer to God in our unique and harsh way. May your pilgrimage be accepted, O people of Gaza, and your striving rewarded, O pure residents of Gaza. And may the eyes of cowards never rest.

Written by Dr. Ahmed Hisham Hillis
Gaza, 2024