Gaza, March 2, 2026 (WAFA) – Mohammed Dahman
The profession of “Musaharati” is one of the deepest Ramadan traditions rooted in the popular Islamic consciousness; it did not begin as an organized profession, but as a simple custom to wake up those sleeping for Suhoor, before it developed over the ages into a popular art with its own tools, chants, drums and rhythm, which is memorized by young and old alike .
If we want to talk about the Ramadan drummer in the form closest to the profession known today, its organized beginnings go back to Egypt during the Abbasid era, from where it spread to the Levant, and then to the rest of the Islamic world, with differences in styles and melodies according to the local environment and culture .
Before the idea of the Ramadan drummer became widespread in some parts of the Arabian Peninsula, Muslims were alerted to the pre-dawn meal (suhoor) by the first call to prayer (adhan), and then the second call to prayer was raised as the time for abstaining from food and the Fajr prayer, a tradition that still exists to this day .
The style evolved from a mere passing call in the alleys to an artistic performance using the drum, lantern and supplications. The Ramadan drummer acquired a special social presence, as he would receive symbolic gifts and donations from the people, and collect monetary “gifts” as Eid al-Fitr approached, in addition to clothes and food, in a scene that reflects the depth of the relationship between him and the neighborhood whose alleys he roams every night .
From the alleys of Qizan al-Najjar to a tent in al-Mawasi
The Ramadan drummer, Nizar Al-Dabbas (53 years old), lost his home in the Qizan Al-Najjar area, south of Khan Yunis, and now lives with his family of nine children in a tent in the Mawasi area of Khan Yunis .
Al-Dabbas tells Wafa’s correspondent that he has been practicing the practice of waking people up for Suhoor for about 25 years, since his days in Syria until his arrival in Gaza, adding: “For me, it is a heritage, a hobby, and a custom that has accompanied me since childhood. I considered it a social message for the sake of God Almighty, without any compensation.”
He recalls the atmosphere before the war, saying: “The streets were lit, lanterns decorated the houses, and children would go out with me carrying their small lights. We would greet the neighborhood by its names and houses, and sing for each family by name.”
He continues sadly: “There is no lighting in the streets, no houses, and not even my drum or professional attire remains. I feel sadness and anguish, especially when I call out to houses that no longer exist, or remember their owners who were martyred.”
Despite the loss, Al-Dabbas affirms that he never thought of stopping, saying: “I will never give it up for life, because it is my hobby and habit, and I love doing good, especially in the month of goodness and blessings. My message to our people is to be patient and steadfast, and may God grant us relief.”
Among the tents… the shock of the Ramadan drummer
As for Faraj Abu Naji (30 years old), a resident of the northern Gaza Strip, whose house was destroyed and who now lives in a tent next to his destroyed home, he has another story with the drum that was forcibly silenced .
He says: “For more than ten years I have been practicing the tradition of waking people up for Suhoor, and over time I felt it was one of my basic duties in Ramadan, but this is the third Ramadan in which I have not practiced waking people up for Suhoor as I used to.”
He points out that the atmosphere of bombing during the past two years prevented him from going out, and with what was described as a truce this year, he went out among the tents to carry out his mission, but the scene was shocking .
He adds: “I found people awake wondering: What will we have for Suhoor? No food, no dates, no cheeses, no sweets. I call out to the houses that have become rubble, and the names of their owners who were martyred or displaced far away. Before the war, I used to return laden with gifts, and today I returned laden with pain and the worries of the people.”
He continues: “I decided to temporarily stop calling people to prayer. People can’t sleep because of the cold and lack of food, so how can I wake them up?”
Nawal Farwana… Ramadan without a home
In a tent in Mawasi Khan Younis, Nawal Farwana lives with her husband and three children after their home was destroyed .
She tells Wafa’s correspondent: “We used to welcome Ramadan days in advance, shopping for decorations and lanterns, hanging them up in the house, and waiting for the announcement from the Dar al-Ifta. The neighborhood would light up, songs would fill the place, and we would wake up to the gentle voice of the Ramadan drummer.”
She continues with regret: “Today we have replaced the house with a tent, and electricity with darkness that we light with a mobile phone flashlight. Suhoor has become tiring; we eat anything to escape the cold. We have lost the voice of the Ramadan drummer, which was the symbol of joy.”
She adds: “We try to make our children happy with lanterns we make from aluminum cans without lights. Life here is miserable; we miss the Ramadan we knew.”
Ata Al-Qassas… One trip became a memory
Atta Mahmoud Al-Qassas, a father of four sons and three daughters, all lived in one building in Rafah. They would gather around one table during Ramadan, which the sons’ wives would share with their different dishes .
Speaking to Wafa’s correspondent with tears in his eyes, he said: “Ramadan was a time of togetherness and unity. We would visit relatives together, and our neighborhood would be filled with decorations and evening gatherings after Taraweeh prayers. The women would follow the drummer from the balconies, and the men would invite him for Suhoor.”
But the war separated the family between Qizan Rashwan, Deir al-Balah and al-Mawasi, and al-Qassas lost two of his sons, Rashad and then Shadi, his eldest son and support, within three months, leaving behind seven children.
He says in a heavy voice: “I cry after dawn longing for them, and I hear their mother crying at sunset. Ramadan no longer has its flavor. Our lives pass by like a passing of time. And I am very sad when someone says to me, ‘Happy New Year.'”
Between one tent and another, between the sound of a missing drum and the names of houses reduced to rubble, the Ramadan drummer in Gaza stands as a witness to the changing meaning of life. His role is no longer simply to wake people for their pre-dawn meal, but to try to revive a collective memory threatened with extinction .
Despite all that has changed, some children still go out behind the drummer, even if with shy steps, as if they are holding on to a thin thread that connects the present of the tents with a past in which the alleys were lit, the houses were full, and the sound of the drum was an announcement of joy that was here once.
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/ A.F
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