In Ramadan, gestures of solidarity and hope carry a special weight. Distance does not erase memory nor compassion for those who suffer. From Málaga, Moisés Saca, a defender of history, has written a letter for Gaza, as an act that sustains silent resistance.
He rose one determined morning. On the table, a cup of cardamom-flavored coffee—a childhood memory—and a slice of bread soaked in olive oil, sprinkled with za’atar, kept him company. Beside them, a black pen on paper offered the possibility of reaching where planes and ships cannot: a letter.
He headed to the post office. He walked through Andalusian streets still bearing Arabic names, past whitewashed walls holding ancient shadows, across a land that had also known what it was to lose everything. Andalusia taught that dispossession does not always end with disappearance: sometimes it remains in language, in architecture, in inherited nostalgia.
Upon arrival, a clock behind the glass door showed a quarter to nine. In a few minutes, the office would open to the public.
The clerk received the letter. Silence was punctuated by the mechanical typing of a form. Then, a polite morning greeting:
—Sender, please—he asked.
—I write from a place where the cold is fought with heating, not shared blankets—he replied, carrying the voice of a distant diaspora.
—Recipient?
—I don’t know who this letter is addressed to. Perhaps to an entire city that resists. Perhaps to a child who cannot sleep, to a mother calculating portions too small. The recipient matters less than the act of writing.
—Date and place?
—As soon as possible.
—And the location? I will need a destination.
—To Gaza. The shipment is to Gaza, please.
The clerk knew the route, but had to check with the delivery person.
—I have a letter. It’s for Gaza.
—The route of letters that never arrive?
—Exactly. I fear this letter will find no valid address, amidst power outages, drone noise, and endless nights.
Finally, it would be sent. He placed it in a brown envelope and collected the postage fee. That was all.
Leaving the office, he thought of all those who, centuries before, had written letters from this same land: letters written in haste, folded with exile, entrusted to an uncertain future. They knew they would not return. He repeated that ancient gesture: writing to a besieged place, to a fragmented homeland, aware that the letter might never arrive, but certain that the act of writing it was already a form of resistance against oblivion.
Some letters are not written to be read. They are written because silence weighs heavier than words, because staying silent is also a way of surrendering. This is one of those letters.
In this Ramadan 2026, this letter reminds us that even the simplest gestures can be acts of compassion, memory, and shared hope. To write, like to fast or to pray, can be an act of resistance and solidarity with those who need it most.
