Easter under siege — Gaza starvation and Europe’s moral reckoning

Even in the valley of death, the human spirit strains toward light. This Easter, in the land where resurrection was first proclaimed, there were no lilies, no hymns, no candlelit vigils — only the stubborn pulse of survival under siege.

In Gaza, the bells are silent. The Holy Family Church, Gaza’s oldest and last-standing Catholic sanctuary, is now a shell — its stone walls scarred by artillery, its altar buried beneath rubble. Here, father Gabriel once welcomed hundreds for Easter Mass. This year, he buried entire families. The pews are broken. The stained glass shattered. Only the cross remains upright — a lone silhouette against a sky blackened by drones.

Still, the faithful gathered.

They came not dressed in white but wrapped in keffiyehs and blankets, displaced, grieving, defiant. Children painted Easter eggs not with dye, but with ash from burned homes. On scraps of cardboard, they scrawled the words, “We are still here.” And when the priest whispered, He is risen, a mother in mourning whispered back, So must we be.

This year, Easter was not celebrated in Gaza. It was resisted.

Across occupied Palestine, the story was the same. In Bethlehem — the cradle of Christianity — the procession of palms wound through checkpoints and surveillance towers. In Ramallah, young people staged a Passion Play where Jesus was not only crucified by empire, but stopped at an Israeli military checkpoint. And in Jerusalem, the Stations of the Cross were walked by grieving mothers, bearing the names of sons and daughters starved, sniped, or disappeared.

In every step, they asked: What resurrection is possible in a land where children die of hunger before their first breath? What redemption is there when the wombs that carried life are cut off from food, medicine, and water by siege and design?

The truth is stark: this Easter unfolded in the shadow of genocide.

Starvation — the most ancient of crimes — is being used as a method of war against Palestinians. It is not incidental. It is intentional. It is engineered.

Since October 2023, Israel has declared a “complete siege” on Gaza, blocking the entry of food, fuel, electricity, and clean water. Israeli forces have bombed bakeries, destroyed water infrastructure, and attacked aid convoys.

More than 30 children — including infants — have already died from malnutrition and dehydration. UN agencies warn that famine is imminent in northern Gaza, where nearly every child now suffers from “wasting,” the most severe form of hunger. Mothers are unable to produce breast milk. Infants are born underweight and die within days. Families grind animal feed into flour. Children chew on leaves.

This is not a natural disaster. It is policy.

The use of starvation as a weapon of war is prohibited under international humanitarian law, including Article 54 of Additional Protocol I to the Geneva Conventions. It is also defined as a war crime under the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court. Where committed with genocidal intent — the intent to destroy a people in whole or in part — it may also constitute genocide.

And yet, Europe remains complicit.

While Palestinian children starve, the EU continues to fund, arm, and normalise relations with the very regime imposing the siege. Despite Article 2 of the EU-Israel Association Agreement conditioning cooperation on respect for human rights, the agreement remains in force. Despite the EU common position on arms exports, which prohibits transfers when there is a clear risk of violations of international humanitarian law, weapons continue to flow.

Easter in Gaza, then, is not just a tragedy. It is a moral indictment.

Because while Europe celebrates the rebirth of spring with chocolate and daffodils, Palestinian Christians — among the oldest Christian communities in the world — are burying their children under olive trees and rubble. In Rafah, youth volunteers painted cracked walls with sunrises and doves. In Beit Sahour, they held candlelight vigils for the children of Gaza — Christian and Muslim — whose names will never be read in any European parliament. In Jenin, they planted olive trees — not as symbols of peace, but of permanence.

They do not ask Europe for charity. They ask for courage.

To recognise the Christian heritage of Europe is to recognise the Christian presence in Palestine. The land that bore Christ now bears mass graves. The olive groves where Jesus walked were bulldozed by military tanks. The land of resurrection has become a place of engineered starvation.

This is not only a legal failure. It is a theological one.

If Easter means anything — if resurrection still holds meaning — then let it be this: life must rise where death reigns, justice must rise where impunity governs, and international law must rise where it has long been buried.

The youth of Palestine are not asking for symbols. They are demanding structural change. They ask Europe not to pray for peace while profiting from war. Not to light candles while extinguishing rights. Not to lament tragedy while enabling it through policy.

This Easter, Europe must rise. Suspend the EU-Israel Association Agreement. Enforce an arms embargo. Uphold international humanitarian and criminal law. Recognize the State of Palestine — not as an act of sentiment, but as a commitment to ending permanent displacement, siege, and dehumanization.

Because in Gaza, Easter is not about tradition. It is about survival.

And the children of Gaza are watching. So is history.