How to plan a wedding when you don’t know what tomorrow will bring

In Gaza, weddings have become acts of defiance: couples marry in tents, borrow bouquets and rebuild, choosing love despite grief and suffering.

Engagement and marriage are supposed to be among the happiest stages of life, filled with family, gifts, flowers, music and the excitement of beginning a new life with the one you love.

Gazan weddings used to be large, lively occasions in which men danced the traditional dabke line while women filled the air with their ululations — the zaghrouta, a high-pitched vocal trill signalling celebration.

In the days and weeks leading up to the festivities, brides searched for their dresses, families prepared traditional foods, such as summaqiyya, a sumac and vegetable dish, and trays of rice and chicken. At the same time, florists arranged bouquets and decorations — all to bring to life a day that couples and families had imagined for years.

Today, however, weddings in Gaza are very different. The war has made it almost impossible to imagine these milestones as they once were. Yet the desire to carry on — to love, to build a future, to share one’s life — these live on.

On July 12, 2026, as I prepared for my wedding, my mother and I went to the market in Gaza City’s as-Saraya area to buy a few things. I was looking at clothes, kitchenware and other everyday items, thinking about my dress and the life my fiance and I were planning to build together.

The market was quiet until, suddenly, four missiles struck nearby.

We dropped our heads at the thunderous sound, and within seconds a thick black cloud of dust rose behind us. People began looking around, asking what had happened, and I realised that I had gone from dreaming about my wedding to being grateful for having survived an attack.

But the uncertainty continued. On July 28, we faced a sudden forced displacement by Israel in the Yarmouk area, making us flee with only a few belongings. Men, women and children huddled in the streets for nearly two hours, and then the targeted area was bombed, covering us all in dust and debris. It seemed like nowhere was safe.

After these experiences, I began to wonder what it means to prepare for marriage when life in Gaza remains so uncertain — when a ceasefire is just words on paper. How do you plan a wedding when even moving around areas said to be safe is dangerous? How do you buy furniture for a home you are trying to make livable when the prices of necessities keep rising? And the toughest question of all: how do you plan a new life when you do not know what tomorrow will bring?

Across Gaza, young couples are trying to navigate engagement and marriage amid displacement, financial pressure, loss, grief and uncertainty. Their stories are different, but they have one thing in common: they are all trying to build a future in a place where even imagining the prospect of one has become difficult.

For many young Palestinian women in Gaza, even staying in touch with their fiances has become a challenge.

Haneen, a 23-year-old software engineer with a degree from Palestine University, is one of them. Her fiance, Nidal, left Gaza during the war and now lives in Egypt, while she remains in the Strip.

Instead of spending their engagement together — going out, visiting their respective families, preparing for their wedding and enjoying time together — much of their relationship depends on a phone screen and unreliable internet access.

“Having video calls as an engaged couple, with the constant internet outages and weak connection, has been both funny and painful at the same time,” Haneen says.

Moments that should be quiet and romantic have become complicated. Calls end because the internet goes down or a phone battery dies, and messages go unanswered for hours.

“The distance affects both of us,” she says. “We try to be patient with ourselves, but sometimes we feel exhausted and lose motivation. Still, we try to adapt and hold on to the hope that the days ahead may be easier, and that what awaits us may be better than what we are living through now.”

For Haneen, trying to build a life with someone outside of Gaza while her own daily life remains unstable has become an exercise in patience. She and Nidal have been engaged for six months, and they hope to marry next spring. If Haneen is able to leave Gaza, they plan to live in Egypt; otherwise, Nidal will return to Gaza, and they will start their life there.

For others, the challenge is less about distance and more about the cost of starting a life together. Ahmed al-Batsh, a 20-year-old man from Jabalia, northern Gaza, which is currently designated by Israel as a "Yellow Zone" and is inaccessible to residents, is now displaced and preparing to marry.

He says economic pressure affects everything. Gold, wedding attire, housing and even transportation costs are all higher than before, he said.

“Today, the pressure on couples is very high,” he said. “Both sides have to give up some things so they can build their life together and continue.”

For families who have lost their jobs or sources of income, these costs can be difficult to afford. As a result, couples have had to rethink what a wedding means. Some postpone their weddings, some limit the number of guests and others borrow.

But for many, including Ahmed, the financial difficulties are intertwined with substantial grief and loss that have changed what the marriage celebration means to families.

“Despite the sadness I carry after my mother, Mariam, was killed at our home on April 13, 2025, during the war, I chose to continue with my life because there is no other choice,” he said.

That morning, during the famine, she was trying to find what little food remained in the cupboard for her young children when a bullet suddenly struck her in the neck and exited through her chest. She died instantly.

“We pretend to be happy, but nothing is like it was before,” he added.

For Hala al-Khatib, 21, engagement and marriage also came with loss.

She was engaged on September 9, 2025, during the war, following a series of painful events for her fiance Muhannad’s family. Their engagement was postponed several times because of repeated deaths, including the loss of Muhannad’s brother, Salim. Later, his brother Khamis was killed while trying to get humanitarian aid. His sister Hadeel was also killed along with her children and husband in their tent. Other losses followed.

Each death meant another period of mourning, another reason to postpone and another reminder that celebrating was difficult while the family was grieving.

Eventually, Hala and Muhannad decided to start planning their wedding because the war had made the distance between them unbearable.  They feared for each other’s safety, and unreliable communication made it impossible for them to check on one another.

“Waiting for a better time was no guarantee that it would ever come, so we chose to prepare for marriage,” Hala says.

But deciding to move forward with the wedding did not mean that building a life together would be easy. Marriage brought them another problem that has become increasingly difficult for young people in Gaza: finding a place to live.

Where can a couple start their life when there are so few homes, and when the available ones are too expensive to rent?

Hala and Muhannad decided to live in a house that had belonged to Muhannad’s brother, Khamis, who was killed during the war.

“It was not an easy decision. The house was full of memories of someone who was no longer there,” Hala said.

For a newly married couple, a home is supposed to mean privacy and comfort, but for Hala and Muhannad, it was also a reminder of death.

They began preparing the house as best as they could. The walls were damaged by repeated artillery fire and nearby shelling, and even the basic materials needed to repair the house required money, effort and time.

“I tried to make the house feel alive again,” Hala said. “Everything around us was destroyed, but we wanted to create something that could bring life back.”

When Hala looks back on her wedding day, she cannot separate the celebration from the grief.

“It didn’t feel like a wedding,” she says. “It felt like a funeral.”

The absence of the family members they had wanted to celebrate with was felt, and the celebration could not erase those losses. Still, they pressed on and married on December 26, 2025, hoping for a better future.

Initially, they had what many couples hope for: a home and a new beginning, but it only lasted a couple of weeks.

Then, at about 10pm on Thursday, January 8, 2026, Hala and Muhannad were at home when a neighbour came running and shouting that they were being forced to evacuate the neighbourhood immediately.

No one knew when the bombing would come or what was being targeted.

They were left frightened and confused, waiting to see what would happen.

“I was shaking with fear. I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t take anything with us,” Hala said, explaining how she had to leave behind her new clothes and everything connected to their wedding.

“We just wanted to save ourselves.”

Moments after they left, their home was bombed.

“We felt like everything we had built was gone in seconds,” Hala said.

They had chosen that home because they could not afford to rent another one, but suddenly it was gone, along with the sense of stability they had tried to create.

“It is strange how our whole lives can be taken away in a matter of moments, without any clear reason,” Hala said. “We feel as if Israel has control over our lives. They can destroy everything within seconds and leave us living in constant fear.”

Today, she and her husband live in a tent.

Before the war, wedding preparations involved many people and traditions. The groom usually gave the bride a mahr, money given as part of the marriage agreement, and an engagement ring.

As the wedding approached, the groom’s family would give the bride money to buy her clothes, a wedding dress and other things she needed for the wedding. The bride, her family and her fiance’s family would visit dress shops so she could try on dresses, happily choosing the one that felt right while surrounded by loved ones, music and laughter.

Then came other preparations: making an appointment at a beauty salon, choosing a florist to prepare a bouquet of fresh red or white flowers, and hiring a photographer to take pictures in beautiful places and to document the wedding day.

The groom’s family would also order sweets and arrange for rice and meat trays, and the families would reserve a wedding hall months in advance.

The celebrations were relatively affordable. Before the war, wedding costs were manageable, and couples could spend more on their celebrations. Brides often rented two dresses: a colourful dress for the henna night, a traditional pre-wedding celebration where the bride, her family and friends gather, and a white wedding gown. Back then, both dresses cost about $350 combined. Wedding photography, including the photo book, used to cost around $167. Food, sweets and hospitality were also relatively affordable. Today, in comparison, even the cheapest single wedding dress can cost about $350, while photography costs around $125 without a photo book.

As for wedding venues, the most expensive ones cost about $500 to rent before the war, while many families chose less expensive options for their celebrations.

Preparing a home was also an important part of getting ready for marriage. The man usually prepared the home first, and after the engagement, he and his fiancee would choose the furniture and household items together for the bedrooms, children’s rooms, guest rooms, bathrooms and kitchen.

For those who did not own a home, renting was also within reach. A house could be rented for about $150 a month, which was affordable for many families. Today, even renting the smallest home can cost $350 a month, making it extremely difficult for many people to afford. Because incomes have been sharply reduced amid widespread displacement, many families who manage to rent homes often cannot sustain the rent for more than a couple of months.

Together, these preparations created a whole wedding industry, which the war disrupted for a long time. Some businesses were damaged or destroyed in strikes, while others simply closed. Since then, some have reopened, but they are operating on a much smaller scale because people can no longer afford their services.

Flower availability has also changed. A bouquet may seem like a small and easily accessible part of a wedding, but in Gaza, even acquiring flowers can be difficult.

Fresh flowers are rare finds, and the price of artificial flowers has risen sharply amid the shortage. It’s so expensive now, in fact, that many brides resort to borrowing or renting artificial bouquets — just to hold them for a few hours.

There’s also a shortage of wedding halls. Before the war, these venues provided large spaces for families and friends to decorate, fill with music and celebrate.

But the war destroyed many of the halls, and some that remain are in areas people are not allowed to enter. For example, Mazaya Hall, once a very popular venue, is now located in the Yellow Zone, the contentious military border set up as part of the US-brokered ceasefire.

Other halls have reopened despite severe war damage, and some have used nylon sheets and fabric to repair the damaged spaces.

Hani Reihan, manager of al-Reihan Hall, located in the northern part of the Gaza Strip, says he opened his venue earlier this year because of the shortage of wedding halls.

“My wife’s brother was getting married, and he rented a cafe for two days for 3,900 shekels ($1,300),” he said.

That amount was the average annual per capita income across Gaza in 2022; by late last year, the average had dropped by at least 85 percent to about 500 shekels. So Hani’s family paid a lot for the venue.

“The first day was for the men,” he said. “On the wedding day, the bride put on her white dress, but there was a problem with the equipment, and the DJ did not work.”

So the bride got married but could not have a celebration.

Hoping to cash in on a gap in the market and to provide families with a decent venue, Hani bought an old pickle warehouse and transformed it into al-Reihan Hall.

“I wanted to stand with people and give them a chance to celebrate,” he said.

Halls like this are hard to maintain.

Mousa Nabhan, who works at al-Tayeb Hall, a well-known wedding venue in the Jabalia area of the northern Gaza Strip, refers to the high costs of every input of the business.

“The cost of electricity and running the hall is very high,” he said. “Even decorations and flowers are expensive. A single artificial flower costs 25 shekels ($8). We get only five weddings a month, sometimes even fewer.”

For some halls, however, the challenge goes beyond war damage and operational costs; it is also about who is left to celebrate.

At al-Wurood Hall, a large venue in the Jimmizat Abu Ghneima area of the northern Gaza Strip, for example, manager Abu Warda says he is often surprised by how few family members are involved in the wedding celebrations.

“Several grooms come to book the hall and give me a paper listing the different parts of the wedding. I look at it, but sometimes I don’t see any parts for the groom’s family. I ask, ‘Where is your family?’ and he tells me, ‘They were all killed. I am the only one left, but I want to make the bride and her family happy.’”

The location of these halls reflects the shrinking space available for life in Gaza. Most of the halls are close to the "Yellow Line", and the reason is simple: 70 percent of Gaza is under occupation and siege, so there are not enough places left to operate.

“We are taking a risk with this project and expect that Israeli forces could enter the area at any moment,” says Warda, noting how close his hall is to the "Yellow Line".

With fewer available halls and rising costs, some couples have had to find other places to celebrate. As a result, some couples now hold their weddings in tents or empty spaces because wedding venues are too expensive.

Wedding photography remains an important staple for couples in Gaza, even though photo sessions and books have become more expensive.

A photographer at Sparkle Studio, a bridal and photography studio in the heart of Gaza City, says wedding photography has skyrocketed in price because photo paper is scarce and printing costs are so high.

“To make things easier for people, we take their photos and send them on a USB drive or something similar,” she says.

During the war, we often turned to photographs to remember happier times before it began. They are easy to grab during evacuations, and they hold so many memories, which is why they may be among the few things that endure.

To lower costs, some couples team up for group weddings instead of planning individual events.

In December 2025, 54 Palestinian couples took part in a mass wedding in Khan Younis called “Thobe al-Farah,” a rare, large public celebration held after years of war and displacement.

The couples walked together among the destroyed buildings, turning the mass wedding into a moment of celebration and hope.

Similar events have followed. The Al-Faris Al-Shahm Foundation organised another large wedding, “Thobe al-Farah 2,” in Deir el-Balah on April 25, 2026, for 300 brides and grooms, including people who had been injured and people with disabilities.

For some couples, a mass wedding means sharing the costs. For others, it is simply a chance to have a wedding at all.

These weddings give couples a way to celebrate their marriage without having to carry the financial burden. The costs are fully covered by outside organisations, and couples also receive some cash and gifts such as watches for the bride and groom, as well as a shared lunch.

All the brides wear traditional Palestinian dresses, while the grooms wear suits and Palestinian keffiyehs. The wedding is a shared celebration, with the couple’s families or friends attending.

While it is hard for those outside of Gaza to fathom how young people there can fall in love, marry and start new lives under such tough conditions, Palestinian couples in the enclave continue to find a way forward.

As a bride myself, I know the reason why is simple: we are human, and we want to live, love and build families and futures. We cannot stop being human just because war surrounds us.

Just before my own wedding, I no longer just imagined the dress or the celebration; I thought about Hala and Muhannad losing their home just two weeks after their wedding, unable to take the things they had prepared for their new life. I thought about Haneen talking to her fiance on the phone, trying to maintain a relationship separated by borders, war and unreliable internet. And I reflected on how Ahmed was trying to continue his life after his mother was killed.

Their stories helped me see that engagement and marriage in Gaza are now more than social milestones; they have become a way of adapting and an act of refusing to let the war define every part of who we are.

The war has taken homes, belongings, routines and people we love, but we cannot let it take our dreams for the future.

I got married on September 1, 2026, at al-Tayeb Hall. Of course, we had concerns because the hall was close to the "Yellow Line", but we had no other option. All I hoped was that the day would pass safely and peacefully.

I had a simple henna gathering with my family and friends, without a dress or a big celebration. Then, on my wedding day, I wore the white dress I had chosen and celebrated with the people I love. I wanted to enjoy every minute of my henna and wedding day — here, we do not always get the chance to celebrate or have happy days.

While I was at the hairdresser before my wedding, I was frightened by a security incident in western Gaza City. The hairdressers and women in the salon were talking about what was happening and saying that no one was allowed to move outside the area. I was so scared that the situation might affect my ability to get to the wedding hall.

But after the Israeli forces withdrew, we were able to leave and go to the venue. Thankfully, the wedding went ahead, and we were able to celebrate and complete our wedding safely.

After the wedding, I moved to a tent in the as-Saftawi area of northern Gaza. The tent is not the home I dreamed of, and it does not have the furniture I once dreamed of. But I hope to make it feel warm and build a happy life there.

That night, we slept for the first time in our tent. Instead of the peace and happiness I had imagined for our first night as a married couple, we spent the night listening to heavy and intense bombardment. It was a difficult beginning to our new life, but we held on to the hope that, despite everything around us, we could still build a warm and happy life together.