One of the most rewarding experiences of my time at Harvard thus far has been taking advantage of the opportunity to grow closer to and understand my faith. Growing up in a mixed-religion household, my parents have always been completely supportive and helpful in understanding my beliefs. Islam was a choice I made on my own, and despite having an incredible support system in my home, that was about as far as it extended; I had few Muslim friends and had only ever met two other Arabs throughout my life. At Harvard, I was so excited to find a community of people like me that I could ask questions to, learn from, and spend time with.
That is exactly what I got. I am so lucky to have been embraced by the Arab and Muslim communities at Harvard, full of people so dedicated to their faith, culture, and the causes that matter most in our lives. I am in awe of how strong this community is, and how willing they are to make sure that everyone feels included and represented during their four years. I’ve always felt somewhat disconnected from my identity, but because of the people I’ve met, I have become encouraged to be my true self, learn about who I am, and become closer to Islam.
So this Ramadan, I made it a goal to further devote myself to my faith. I went to the mosque for the first time in a while, prayed throughout the day, and consistently volunteered and gave to charity. In the days since Ramadan ended, I’ve continued to build on and carry out these habits, as echoed by the sermon during Eid prayer and breakfast programming hosted by Harvard at the SOCH; Ramadan is a time to be grateful and give thanks, and we should extend these actions far after the month is over.
Yet, both I and the community that I have found solace in have been challenged in the past year more than ever. The Israel-Hamas war has left at least 33,634 Palestinians and 1,139 Israelis dead, with half of Gaza’s homes damaged and over a million people displaced. Journalists, aid providers, and service workers have put their lives in extreme danger, and many have been injured or killed doing so. We are at the forefront of a dire humanitarian crisis, and calls for a ceasefire continue to fail.
The realities of this war have been painful and shocking. Every day, I see families who look like mine displaced, dying, or dead. Videos of mothers crying holding their lost children and strangers working together to retrieve bodies out of the rubble are engraved in my memory. In Gaza, packed hospitals, sleepless nights, and a constant fear for safety are a distressing norm. I’ve become hopeless and lost; how can we just sit back and watch this happen, watch these conditions get consistently worse and worse, and do nothing?
However, these despairing circumstances are also coupled with resilience. Palestinians continue to use their faith so beautifully to guide them through this crisis. I see children playing through the rubble and people coming together to support one another through the loss of their homes and family. Throughout Ramadan, the people of Gaza prayed outside, persevering despite having no safe or lasting place of worship to go to, embracing each other along the ruins.
Student activists and organizers all across Harvard’s campus hold this strength, too, organizing petitions for referendums, protests, weeks of action, meetings, and works of art to advocate for change. But our message has become misheard; the true focus has been turned away from requests for a ceasefire or transparency in funds and has instead shifted to the Harvard students and community members who take part in these movements or are involved in this discourse. The attention is on the messenger, not the message.
My community has been doxxed, threatened, and intimated. Many have been harassed, reported, and have been left to feel ostracized by administration and unsafe on campus. Even our very own Harvard Independent articles have been weaponized to identify students and scare them out of their activism. But these experiences are incomparable to the circumstances in the Middle East, and the violence and heartbreak that have engulfed the region. So, we have not stopped; we will continue making strides toward a cease in violence and hold Harvard accountable for its role.
This Ramadan, I chose to fast, and from sundown to sunrise I got to break. Yet those in Gaza do not have this choice. There is a widespread problem of starvation and famine running its course, and the efforts to provide food have been halted due to instances such as the killing of World Central Kitchen workers on April 2. This Ramadan, I chose to give, donating to important causes such as humanitarian efforts on the ground like the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund. Yet for those in Gaza, giving and sharing what little resources are available is crucial to survival, and the loss of stable facilities and health services has left people to make severe sacrifices for one another.
So while this Ramadan was wonderful, it feels wrong to fully say that it was. I am beyond grateful and lucky for the people I surround myself with, my family, my education, and the position I am in to write a reflection like this. Yet while I sit comfortably, there could be a 20-year-old named Layla in Gaza who is without a home, or who lost her brother, or who was forced to stop pursuing her schooling. Both of us are praying, yet while one of us has a great community and one of the wealthiest institutions in the world behind us, the other is doing it practically alone.
In time for next Ramadan, I pray that I continue to grow closer to the incredible community that has embraced me with open arms, and that we can stay strong in our activism and see the outcomes we have been standing up for. I pray that those outside our Harvard community take a step back and pay attention to what is right; the whole world should be watching, but all eyes should not just be on us. And I will always pray for peace.
In an April 4 email, the Office of the Muslim Chaplains wrote, “As we look forward towards Eid and beyond, let’s keep in mind the myriad of blessings we have which cannot be denied, and how truly precious life is. We don’t know if this will be our final Ramadan, just as many last year were unaware that last year’s Ramadan would be their final one.” I felt the impact of these words immensely: a year ago, there was a girl in Gaza who celebrated Ramadan, just like me. Neither of us expected the violence that would have changed our lives forever, either on the frontlines or from watching from afar; yet only one of us lived to tell the story.
Layla Chaaraoui ’26 (laylachaaraoui@college.harvard.edu) is named after The Night of Power during the month of Ramadan, or Laylat al-Qadr in Arabic, where God revealed the beginning of the Quran to Mohammed.