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Loss and grief have perched on the Retno Hotel’s granite-floored corridors for more than 16 months.

On the evening of October 6, 2023, the family-run hotel was close to full occupancy. The majority of the 70 or so guests were from Gaza, with the majority being Palestinian Americans. Expecting to return home soon, they had brought just enough clothes for a week’s stay.

Among them were Ahmed Ayyash, a 72-year-old civil engineer from Gaza City, and his 62-year-old wife, Maha. Shadia Abu Mrahil, age 24, from Deir el-Balah, was present along with her 25-year-old son Karam.

Like most of the guests from Gaza, they were regular visitors to the modest limestone building with its 45 double- or triple-bedded rooms. Although on sunnier days, guests would occasionally sip their coffee there next to a canopy of bright pink bougainvillaeas, it wasn’t the quiet north Ramallah street that attracted them, nor the small courtyard out front with its plastic tables and chairs.

They were there to receive medical treatment – for cancer, heart problems and developmental disorders – that was unavailable in Gaza. Both Ahmed and Shadia have leukaemia.

In northern Gaza, they would pass through Erez, a border crossing controlled by the Israeli army, to reach Ramallah. For a few days at a time, they would stay at the hotel while they received their treatment and then return home to Gaza. They were frequently accompanied by relatives. Some had been doing this for years. For Ahmed and Maha, these medical trips also offered an opportunity to visit Al-Aqsa Mosque in occupied East Jerusalem and to eat kunafa  with friends in Nablus, which is located 50 kilometers (31 miles) away.

October 6, 2023, was a quiet day, a Friday. The Retno Hotel’s majority of its guests took a break from their treatments because the majority of Ramallah’s businesses were shut down. Ahmed went out to pray at a nearby mosque with Maha, his wife of 44 years. They had arrived in Ramallah the previous day and bought bread, cheese, chocolate, fruits and vegetables for their stay. They had dinner in the dining room and conversed with other guests before going to bed when they came back to the hotel that evening.

When they woke up the following morning, everything had changed. Israel massively bombarded the Gaza Strip in the days that followed the Hamas-led attack and cut off access to food, water, and electricity. The Palestinian American guests at the hotel fled. Those who stayed, hospital patients and their family members, waited anxiously for news from Gaza. Many of the people who had to call their loved ones back home were unable to reach them because the phone service was down. Some crowded into the hotel owner’s office to watch the developments on television, wondering what the fast-escalating war would mean for their families and for their treatments.

Ahmed sat in his room, looking up the news feeds and examining the Gazan journalists’ Telegram updates. Guests who managed to contact loved ones during the sporadic moments when the phone service returned, shared whatever they learned with others. Others never got through.

In the first month of the war, some guests lost their children, and Ahmed recalled hearing about the martyrdom of many of my family’s members, including those of my cousin and his wife, my cousin and her husband, their children, and some friends.

“The bad news was constant. ”

Clouded thoughts of the future

Patients and their families from Gaza have been able to stay at the Retno Hotel since 2017 when they travel by taxi to Istishari Hospital, which is a 10-minute drive away.

It is among a network of accommodations — mostly hotels, but also lodgings including UNRWA facilities — housing Palestinians granted temporary permits by Israel to leave Gaza to receive medical treatment in West and occupied East Jerusalem and the occupied West Bank. The Palestinian Authority’s (PA) Ministry of Health covers the cost of the treatment.

Over the years, Nawaf Hamed, the 66-year-old owner and manager of the Retno, has tried to keep the place cheerful. The common areas were often filled with music – everything from Western folk to classical Arabic. The instruments that Nawaf kept around the lobby, including a tabla, guitar, and Middle Eastern string instrument, were occasionally played by guests. “We would sing, and we [would] dance! He shivered in wonder as he recalled. Those joyful nights stopped with COVID lockdowns, and never quite returned.

When the war began, the permit arrangements for patients from Gaza quickly broke down. People who were receiving medical care in Jerusalem were forced to leave and flee to the occupied West Bank, where they had to register with the PA and locate a new hospital. None were able to return to Gaza.

Nawaf’s guests remarked, “The people were very afraid of the future.”

Today, 400 patients from Gaza are currently registered with the PA with some staying in Ramallah as well as in Hebron, 60km (37 miles) to the south, and Nablus and Jenin, less than 100km (62km) to the north.

Over the months, more patients have moved into the Retno. 33 adults, 14 children, and 37 family members are currently residing there as temporary residents. Seven patients at the hotel have died of their illnesses since the war started. Their families have been killed, and their homes and previous lives have been destroyed as the others continue to battle their health issues.

On a November afternoon, Shadia was sitting on a light grey couch in the corner of the hotel lobby where many guests gather. “What the war has done to my family, to my home, to my Gaza, kills me more every day than the cancer ever will,” she said, sighing.

They exchanged greetings as frail patients exited the lift before taking shared taxis to the hospital. A shuttle bus would bring them back later in the day.

Karim had his hands gently clasped in his lap while he sat next to his mother, his hair was coiffed, and he had a well-groomed beard. Nearby, Ahmed, dressed in a blue sweater and green button-down shirt, slouched in his chair, while Maha smiled warmly at fellow residents as they passed by. Other guests stopped to ask the front desk attendant, a woman in her 30s, for fresh towels or to grumble about the noise coming from their neighbour’s room at night.

An exhausted Shadia remarked, “Our feelings are [in Gaza], and it affects every moment of our lives. “I am tired and sick already from the cancer treatment. And the total destruction that has swept our homes, families, and communities in Gaza has weighed heavily on our outlooks for the future, which will continue day after day. ”

They cry at night.

Nawaf, a stout man often with reading glasses on a cord around his neck, goes about his days running the family business while stopping to chat with guests.

Nawaf will peer through the glass doors of his small office, which is right next to the lobby, and beckon them to get inside for a cup of coffee. He has positioned the black leather couches in his office in a semicircle around a table to make the place more inviting. Guests come by to discuss their treatments, or to watch the news on television. They sit by the fireplace on chilly, winter nights. Some want to talk late into the night, others want to sit in silence.

Ahmed approached on a sunny afternoon as Nawaf was sipping Arabic coffee in the courtyard. He called out to the older man and shook his hand as he asked: “How are you, my friend? ”

Before entering the building, Ahmed said, “Peace be upon you.” He then snared in a blur of a smile.

“May you have good health,” Nawaf called after him.

In Gaza, that man was a fantastic civil engineer! ” Nawaf declared, gesturing at Ahmed as he disappeared through the entrance door.

As other guests walked by, Nawaf bellowed a hearty “hello” and shook their hands.

The hotel was built in 2000 by Nayef and his father, Nayef, and it was officially opened four years later. They ran the place together until Nayef passed away two years ago. Both his two daughters, who are in their 20s and early 30s, and his 11 siblings, who work in the family business, are involved in the business.

Most hotels in the occupied West Bank are all but empty these days with the war bringing tourism to a standstill and restricting travel. A rare exception is the Retno. But even with all the occupants, the hotel is under financial strain. Nawaf claims that the PA ceased to pay for the patients’ housing costs after Israel began to withhold the PA’s tax income in April. “Every week, we struggle to figure out how to pay the bills the next week,” he explained as he sat in the courtyard lined with potted citrus trees. “We don’t know what to do, how to spend money for breakfast. The workers don’t receive their regular salaries, he claimed, referring to his 20 employees, since June.

From the time breakfast is served, Nawaf tries to keep hotel operations humming as he listens to residents’ concerns, like complaints of a broken bulb or a problem with the toilet in their room.

He has observed some guests becoming agitated over time. Some get aggressive. Others worry that after 16 months of living in a hotel for free, the arrangement won’t last.

Nawaf remarked, “Some of them don’t let us clean their rooms.” “They think we are just going to use it as an excuse to actually kick them out. ”

He has tried to put the patients at ease, occasionally bringing representatives from the PA or NGOs to offer psychosocial services or even theatre sessions. “Usually, we don’t speak about politics,” he said. He occasionally makes a half-joke suggestion to single male patients to get married so they won’t feel as alone. “If nothing else, maybe the [PA] will distribute [wives] to them,” he added with a laugh.

Nawaf frequently uses humor to energize his guests. When, on February 4, the Israeli military came to the area of Ramallah where the hotel is located, he asked me over the phone: “What do you think they want? Falafel or shawarma? ”

But as the war continued, the despair grew among Nawaf’s guests. He said, “They are under stress because they always wait for sad news,” and his expression grew gloomy. “Nobody even speaks about happy things. Just — they are crying. ”

Nawaf leaned back in his chair and looked out at the empty street. He slowly said, “You only listen to people crying in corridors at night, and it’s quiet, and you walk in them.” He let out a sigh. “It is a really difficult experience. ”

Though he tries to stay positive, when the mood in the hotel gets too heavy, “I sometimes go to my office, [and] I close the door just so I can laugh,” Nawaf explained. He won’t make a single thing funny; it is just how he copes with the stress. Then, he might play some Mozart to try to unwind.

‘He’s everything in my life’

The Retno’s shared room has been made more like home by Shaib and Karam, but they haven’t done so. A small donated carpet, darkly coloured with geometric patterns, sits in the middle of the three-by-three-metre (10-foot-by-10-foot) room. On top of a dresser, an electric kettle waits – full of water – to prepare Arabic coffee. However, Deir el-Balah is a short drive away from their house where they live near the beach. Just a year old before the war began, it had marble floors, chandeliers and brand-new furnishings.

Shadia, who was squatting next to Karam on his bed, said, “Around our house were palm trees and olive trees.” “The people next to us planted cabbage, peas and cauliflower. And when we would look outside, all you would see would be green spaces and all this beauty. ”

Now, at the Retno, shutters block the view of Ramallah’s limestone apartment buildings, empty lots and back roads.

Karam enjoyed spending time outside in the family’s garden and the nearby beach.

An only child, he has always been close to his mother. “Her and my father, that’s all, that’s who I have,” said Karam.

He softly continued, “I don’t feel like she’s just my mother.” “She’s my friend and my brother. We communicate regularly. In Gaza, we went to the beach together. I spent more time with her than even my friends. ”

Shadia looked at her son and smiled. She frequently speaks in an anxious voice, complains of joint pain, nausea, fatigue, and dizziness, but she manages to talk about her son without speaking up.

“Karam is not only my son,” said Shadia. “He is my father, my friend, my sister, my brother. I have no idea where my life would be without Karam. He is everything. ”

Shadia began to experience severe back and joint pain in 2014. For years, doctors kept misdiagnosing her ailments, at different points saying she had a bulging disk, or even that she was imagining the crippling pain. “The painkillers they gave me numbed the pain for a little while, but then it would only come back much stronger,” she recalled.

She was finally diagnosed with leukaemia in 2022. “It came as a lightning bolt to [Karam] and to me,” said Shadia, “because to think that I could lose my life and leave him alone, especially because he doesn’t have a brother or sister to take care of him, put me in an extreme depression for over a year. ”

Shadia started coming to Ramallah for treatment. Her sister and Karam would take turns accompanying her. She has had to go through kidney failure and other organ dysfunction, and she has had to find the best one. Beginning her oral chemotherapy regimen just a few months before the war started, Shadia is supposed to maintain a strict diet that limits what she can eat to fruits and vegetables and requires her to avoid food two hours before and after taking her twice-daily medication.

Shadia acknowledges that the stress from the war has made things even more difficult as she accepted her illness.

“Any bad news from Gaza, I could feel the pain in my body,” she said. The debilitating pain means she moves slowly when sitting or standing.

The war on Gaza has me in mind, and of course, the medicine does not [work] as it should, and the [medical] test results are bad. ”

‘Dying slowly in our alienation’

Last August, an Israeli rocket destroyed the family’s home. Hani, Karaman’s father, had already fled. Karam recalled how his mother “broke down crying and refused to receive any calls from her family in Gaza”.

Because our home had been destroyed, she sat in her room for a week without speaking to anyone. ”

Shadia refused to leave even for her hospital visit. Karim continued to watch her while keeping an eye on her by posting funny videos to her phone and providing her with food.

“It didn’t only happen to us,” Karam told his grief-stricken mother, trying to comfort her. It is admirable that we haven’t lost any of our children or our partners, everything. ”

“The most important thing is your health,” he kept telling her. If your health is good, everything is good. We have to accept it, and God willing, we will have something better. ”

“This, we kept repeating to ourselves,” said Shadia.

Seventeen members of Shadia and Karam’s extended family have been killed in this war.

In the Nuseirat refugee camp, Hani and the sisters’ families, whose homes were also destroyed, lived in tents.

Throughout the war, Shadia has remained for days at a time in her and Karam’s room, nauseous from chemotherapy and overwhelmed with anxiety.

She said, “I became homeless and I have been in a very bad state, and I can’t bear these difficult circumstances.”

Without any improvement to her condition, Shadia, like many other residents, is looking at possible options for asylum or medical visas in Europe.

Although Shadia often stays indoors, she and other patients feel confined with outings mostly limited to shuttling between the hotel and Istishari Hospital. Many people struggle with boredom.

“It feels like we’re in a prison,” Maha explained.

Because of their Gaza IDs, residents of the occupied West Bank cannot cross Israeli checkpoints without running into Israeli detention camps, which would put them in Ramallah.

Though residents say they try to keep each other company, they talk about their communities back home with a sense of longing, finding it easier to share memories of Gaza before the war than to talk about the situation today.

“The barbecues and picnics on the beach together! One day, Karam remarked as others nodded enthusiastically in the lobby.

“Mashallah! Everyone was just so kind and welcoming, Maha gleaming.

Even the usually restrained Ahmed cracked a smile. “In our neighbourhood of Remal [in Gaza City], there was such a friendly atmosphere,” he chimed in. Even strangers, people would always invite each other over to their homes. It’s very different from Ramallah, where everyone just comes here to work. ”

The displacement eats away at them all, particularly Shadia. “As a patient, you think of your treatments, your routines, the staff and doctors you get to know, and then you think of Gaza, and you can’t help but feel this alienation, this foreignness, even in Ramallah,” she said heavily. In our alienation, we are slowly perspiring. ”

Worked ‘hard to raise my children right’

The hotel provides a suitable breakfast for the patients that includes bread, fruits and vegetables. Shadia and the other guests have been eating the same rice and chicken every day at the hotel for lunch for months. It is a topic that elicits headshakes and sighs among the residents. Some patients find it difficult to consume or maintain. “Someone who is doing chemotherapy cannot eat this,” said Shadia. But residents also feel guilty knowing that their family members in Gaza could for a long time only dream of eating a full meal, let alone meat.

The PA occasionally pays residents stipends, but they rarely have spare funds and send what they can to their Gazan families. “Before the war, the restaurant in the hotel was working,” said Nawaf, who had to lower the cost of coffee from seven shekels to three for his guests. For lunch, people came. But now the [guests], their wallets are tight, so they buy a sandwich, not a meal. ”

Shadia said, “We are hardly surviving, and we can’t even support [our families. She and Karam often save food from breakfast to eat at dinner.

Family members like Karam have tried to find employment in Ramallah to support their families because patients are typically too ill to work. While some have found employment with the PA, local businesses are largely wary of hiring Palestinians from Gaza, fearing trouble if there is an unexpected Israeli military raid. “I’ve gone to restaurants, supermarkets, anywhere I thought I could get a job, but they all refused,” Karam explained.

Many people deal with what and who will be waiting for them in Gaza, should it become possible for them to travel there. They worry, too, that if they are able to return, they will lose access to medical care.

The 59-year-old Mohammed al-Assali frequently shuffles around the lobby to chat up fellow guests about the Egyptian football team he fervently follows or joke jokes.

He sat down slowly on one of the couches in the lobby. Prayer beads dangled from his stiff left hand.

There is no one to return to in Gaza, according to Mohammed. His entire family was killed during the war, leaving him alone in the world.

Just two days before the war broke out, Mohammad had arrived in Israel as a laborer to paint houses. When the war started, he fled across the Green Line to the occupied West Bank. He registered with the PA’s Ministry of Labour, which placed him in cheap student housing in Jericho.

His family emigrated to a house they thought was safer in Gaza City in November 2023 and set up shop there. Then, that house was bombed, killing his wife, their seven children, and all 10 of his siblings.

Mohammad had a stroke shortly after learning the devastation. He was rushed to the emergency room and then transferred to Istishari Hospital, where he had surgery.

“I underwent open heart surgery due to the intense grief after my family was killed,” Mohammed said.

Mohammad’s left hand and leg suffered minor paralysis as a result of the stroke, which prevented him from returning to work or from frequently wandering the hotel. He spends the day in his room or speaking with other guests.

According to guests at the hotel, Mohammed would say that he would tell others that he would distribute sweets in the street as the war progressed. But when the deal between Israel and Hamas was reached, Mohammed stayed in his room for two days straight, crying in grief.

“I worked really hard to raise my children right and make good people out of them. He described them in a calm, steady voice, adding that two of them were lawyers and three engineers. “But now, they are all martyred, our houses are destroyed, and I have nothing there.

I’m unsure as to why I should return to Gaza. ”

‘Built for the entire society’

Ahmed spends his days in Ramallah in his and Maha’s room pouring through an engineering book, drafting plans to rebuild Gaza, and visiting the mosque.

Ahmed kept to himself when the couple first arrived at the Retno, with Maha serving as their conversational partner. But spending more than a year living under the same roof with other guests has forced him to interact during encounters at breakfast, in the hotel lobby, or while sharing taxis and buses to and from the hospital.

“You have a lot of interactions that you are forced to engage with, and to make pleasantries,” said Ahmed, shrugging his shoulders. So I had to get involved and be a part of a group. ”

He moaned, “Some of the people I like, and you get to talk about family, news, or sports.” “Other people are annoying, loud or needy. But you just learn to deal with them. ”

But most of the time, he likes to be on his own, studying mathematics and physics. Ahmed remarked with a bang that he disliked reading science fiction or literature. “I like to deal with reality. ”

Ahmed had a vision as a child that people could benefit from building things.

In each of the four wars between 2008 and 2021 to befall the besieged Gaza Strip, Ahmed played a pivotal role in reconstruction. He spearheaded the construction of al-Shifa Hospital’s surgical wing, Gaza City’s sanitation system, and buildings along al-Rashid Street, which has since been completely leveled to create the Netzarim Corridor, an Israeli military zone that had previously effectively effectively divided northern Gaza from southern Gaza.

“The saddest moment in my life wasn’t my own home being destroyed,” said Ahmed, referring to the recent war. “It was when they destroyed these major public places that I helped build — schools and hospitals. Not just for me, but for the entire society as a whole. ”

Ahmed has battled a rare form of leukaemia that affects his stomach throughout the entire conflict. He requires an injection which he can only get in Ramallah.

Still, Ahmed and Maha are among those who yearn to return to Gaza, even if they have little faith in the ceasefire holding past its first phase, which finished on March 1. Palestinians trapped in the occupied West Bank are still coordinating with the authorities, and it’s not known when or how that will be done.

“I want to go back, and I am not hesitant to say that,” said Maha firmly shortly after the ceasefire deal was announced on January 15, as she and Ahmed sat alone one evening in the lobby. If anything transpires after that, it is just our destiny. But we need to go back. ”

The hotel’s atmosphere was muted while residents of Ramallah were chanting, waving flags, and handing out sweets while celebrating on the streets.

Key sticking points between Israel and Hamas — including who will administer the Gaza Strip in the future — were left to be resolved in negotiations during the envisaged three-part ceasefire. Israel’s prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu called the first phase a “temporary ceasefire,” stating that the country has the right to resume the conflict.

“This war is not going to end,” said Ahmed. “Both sides are going to keep [fighting]. However, no one returns to Gaza believing that everything will just end. They don’t. ”

“This is how life is in Gaza,” said Maha, a mother of five children and grandmother to 19, with a wistful smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

‘Born to rebuild Gaza’

The tightly knit family at Maha and Ahmed’s house in Remal used to be their home, and Maha would prepare kabsa, maqlooba, and maftool feasts.

During the war, the couple’s house was destroyed along with those of their five children who survived the bombardment with their families.

The long separation has been painful. Living alone with the children is the hardest part, Maha said, her voice suffocating.

She is desperate to live in a home again. As she threw up her hands in disbelief, Maha exclaimed, “If you stay in a hotel for more than a week, you’re going to go crazy.” “I just want to be in a home. This is not a home! ”

Maha has tried to cope with the separation and displacement by focusing on helping her husband. Ahmed’s brother was informed by doctors at An-Najah Hospital in Nablus that while receiving treatment, it was preferable for me to stay with my family and wait until I die. At the time, he was so weak he could barely walk.

But Ahmed kept trying different treatments, eventually discovering the injections. He claims that the Gaza war has only motivated him to improve. “It motivates me more to go back and rebuild,” he explained.

Ahmed’s condition has improved and stabilized despite the doctors’ earlier predictions. He is walking well and now mostly goes to the hospital on his own.

Meanwhile, Ahmed’s mind has turned to rebuilding Gaza. With 69 percent of all structures destroyed or damaged, he is a member of a global network of engineers who are working on how to reconstruct the area.

For now, his health prevents him from leaving the Retno Hotel, but he is determined to beat his illness.

Worldwide, Ramadan, a Muslim holy month, has begun. Muslims who observe the fast will refrain from eating and drinking from dawn to dusk, a period that will last 12 to 16 hours, depending on where they are located.

Muslims believe that the Prophet Muhammad received the first verses of the Quran more than 1,400 years ago.

To increase “taqwa,” or consciousness of God, one must refrain from eating, drinking, smoking, and engaging in sexual activity during the day.

Why does Ramadan occur on different dates each year?

Each year, Ramadan falls 10 to 12 days earlier. Because the Islamic calendar has 29 or 30 day long months, the lunar Hijri calendar is used as the basis for this.

Ramadan will be observed twice in 2030 because the lunar year is shorter by 11 days than the solar year because it begins on January 5 and ends on December 26.

Around the world, people are fasting.

The world has a variety of daylight hours.

Muslims who live in the world’s southernmost nations, like Chile and New Zealand, will observe a fast lasting 13 hours or more on average during their busiest days, while those who live in the world’s northernmost nations, like Iceland and Greenland, will observe fasts lasting 16 hours or more.

The length of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, will be a little shorter for Muslims in the Northern Hemisphere this year and will continue to decrease until 2031, when Ramadan will cover it. The Northern Hemisphere’s fasting hours will increase after that until the longest day of the year, the summer solstice.

The opposite will occur for Muslims who practice fasting south of the equator.

Around the world, there are fasting periods.

The dates of Ramadan 2025’s first and last days are shown in the following table. To locate your city, use the arrows or search box.

Which cities’ fasting periods are the longest and shortest?

In cities around the world, the average number of fasting hours is shown below. The actual fasting hours and times will vary depending on the day as well as the method used to calculate them:

– Greenland, Nuuk: 16 hours
Icelandic Reykjavik: 16 hours
Helsinki, Finland: 15 hours
Oslo, Norway: 15 hours
– 15 hours in Stockholm, Sweden
– Scotland, Glasgow, 15 hours
Berlin, Germany: 14 hours
– 14 hours in Dublin, Ireland
– 14 hours in Moscow, Russia
– 14 hours in Amsterdam, Netherlands
Poland, Warsaw, 14 hours
Astana, Kazakhstan: 14 hours

Brussels, Belgium: 14 hours
– 14 hours in London, United Kingdom
– Zurich, Switzerland: 14 hours
Romanian city of Bucharest: 14 hours
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina: 14 hours
Sofia, Bulgaria: 14 hours
– Rome, Italy: 14 hours
– 14 hours in Spanish capital Madrid
– 14 hours in Paris, France
– Turkey, Ankara: 14 hours
– 14 hours in New York, United States
– Ottawa, Canada: 14 hours
– 14 hours in Beijing, China
Greece, Athens, 13 hours
Lisbon, Portugal: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Tokyo, Japan
Washington, DC, US: 13 hours
Los Angeles, United States: 13 hours
Tunis, Tunisia: 13 hours
Algerian city of Algiers: 13 hours
Tehran, Iran: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Kabul, Afghanistan
– 13 hours in New Delhi, India
– Dhaka, Bangladesh: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Rabat, Morocco
– Syria, Damascus: 13 hours
– Islamabad, Pakistan: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Baghdad, Iraq
– 13 hours in Beirut, Lebanon
– Jordan, Amman: 13 hours
– Palestine, Gaza City: 13 hours
Cairo, Egypt: 13 hours
– Doha, Qatar: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Dubai, United Arab Emirates
– Sudanese capital Khartoum: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
– 13 hours in Abuja, Nigeria
– Aden, Yemen: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Dakar, Senegal
Ethiopian city of Addis Ababa: 13 hours
Buenos Aires, Argentina: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Colombo, Sri Lanka
– Malaysian capital of Kuala Lumpur: 13 hours
– Mogadishu, Somalia: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Paraguay at Ciudad del Este
– 13 hours in Nairobi, Kenya
– Zimbabwe, Harare: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Jakarta, Indonesia
Luanda, Angola: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Bangkok, Thailand
– 13 hours in Brasilia, Brazil
– South Africa, Johannesburg: 13 hours
– Uruguay, Montevideo: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Canberra, Australia
– Chile’s Puerto Montt: 13 hours
– 13 hours in Christchurch, New Zealand

Ramadan greetings in various languages

In their native tongues, countries with Muslim-majority countries offer various Ramadan greetings.

The recipient is wishing them a blessed or generous month, respectively, during this time with “Ramadan Mubarak” and “Ramadan Kareem.”

Abu Ahmad flashes the torch from his phone onto an explosive found in a former regime military outpost that housed soldiers, tanks, and other weapons during the Syrian civil war.

The Syrian Civil Defense, or White Helmets, are now based in the building under the command of Abu Ahmad.

Throughout the entire conflict and in the wake of the 2023 earthquakes, the volunteers in the White Helmets worked tirelessly to rescue survivors trapped beneath rubble and provide them with emergency aid.

After Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) led an opposition offensive that seized Aleppo on November 30 and then led to the ouster of Bashar al-Assad eight days later, they moved into the building.

As people fled the area, discarded military uniforms, tank shells, and soldiers’ personal belongings were scattered throughout, according to Abu Ahmad.

Graffiti still displays pro-regime imagery. We’ll give our lives to you, Bashar, with our souls and blood, according to one message.

A red X has been used to substitute “Bashar.”

The work is still going on.

There are still many things the White Helmets can do in the wake of 13 years of war.

They are demining buildings, locating mass graves, and clearing rubble as evidence of a conflict that shook the city between 2012 and 2016 and that saw the regime retake control of Aleppo and make it one of Syria’s cities that the war had devastated the most.

Abu Ahmad, one of the first White Helmets volunteers in 2013, witnessed it all.

The White Helmets rescued people from the rubble in Aleppo as Russia launched rocket-propelled forces from the air.

After an initial attack, Russia bombed with “double taps,” waiting for rescue workers to arrive before striking once more at the first responders.

Abu Ahmad recalled that because of this Russian strategy, I lost five people close to me. The helicopters dropped barrel bombs, though, which was the worst.

The building had been a fire station prior to the Aleppo wars, and the government had re-established the city’s share of space with the military in 2016.

Despite their previous service to al-Assad, Abu Ahmad now wants to integrate the fire crews into the White Helmets’ activities.