The Bitter Reality Behind the Ceasefire in Gaza

Today is January 16th 2025, and it marks day 467 of the genocide in Gaza. Just yesterday, a ceasefire was announced, bringing relief and joy to us all: As Palestinians from Gaza, we have endured unimaginable hardships. I watched the news and social media from Canada where I currently live. The streets of Gaza were filled with celebrations and there was a collective sense of hope and relief. However, this moment of joy is bittersweet, as it follows a long and painful period of suffering that I will never forget like so many people. This genocide has changed my life and everyone’s lives forever at all levels and nothing will ever be the same.

I feel like going with the flow and imagining myself walking into the near future in Gaza when the ceasefire begins: the reality is stark and overwhelming. I have just entered the area, and all I see is the remnants of homes lying in ruins. People are returning to the places where their homes once stood, but they are unsure of where to go or what to do next. Some set up tents where their houses used to be, while others find shelter with relatives or friends. The uncertainty is palpable, as the emotional toll of losing everything weighs heavily on every person.

I still cannot imagine that my home is ruined or that it is empty, but the first thing I do is to call my friend, again and again, as she has already lost 4 houses and I ask her to stay with her family in my house in case it is still there.

As I move deeper into Gaza, the pain becomes even more apparent. Children who have lost one or both of their parents roam the streets, their faces are a silent testimony to the horrors they’ve endured and the uncertainty they live in since they lost any sense of protection and safety. Many children, whose bodies have been maimed, will never be the same. As others try to rebuild their lives and return to what they consider a “normal” existence, these children carry with them the weight of trauma—missing parents they will never embrace again. The longing in their eyes is haunting, as they will never be able to share their stories with the very people they yearn to speak to and their parents will never see them grow, ever.

In Gaza, the term “burial places” holds a different meaning. I see some of the bodies of the deceased are not buried in proper graves but are scattered across the streets, in hospitals, or even in the gardens of homes or on the sidewalks. People walk over the remains of loved ones, unable to mourn them in the way they deserve. Some are still searching for the bodies of family members, holding on to remnants—clothing, belongings—anything that will offer proof that their loved ones existed, and that they were here.

Amidst the destruction, I also see those who are trying to piece together the fragments of their lives. They sift through rubble, searching for anything that might offer a trace of familiarity. A picture, a piece of furniture, a book—anything to hold on to, to remember who they were before everything changed. I see myself on the rubble of my family house trying to find pictures of my mother and the clothes she asked me to wear on special occasions, which I used to do. I used to wear her clothes or wear her jewelry whenever I had an important occasion, to feel that a part of her was with me.  In these moments, people come together. They share what they have left, and in their shared grief, they find a form of solace. It is here that the true spirit of resilience shines, even in the darkest times.

I already miss Um Mohammad, my neighbor, who was always taking care of me after my mother passed away. I was an adult but I never knew how to cook or do any housekeeping. For my mom, I was a hopeless case that she gave up trying to fix. But when she died, I needed to have some basic skills, and Um Mohammad made it her mission to teach me and help me. I really leaned on her until I became “the good girl” my mum had always wanted me to be. Her house was always open to me and she was someone I always called for emotional and psychological support as well. She died last December and I never got the chance to speak with her or see her. She had a kidney disease and the medicines were unavailable in the market. I still believe she is alive and she will be the first person I see when I enter Gaza.

The cleaning lady I used to have must have been killed by now as I’ve often tried to call her but her mobile is always off. If she has not died because she was killed, she must be dead because of cancer. I always speak with my aunts to make sure that they are doing well. They started to complain lately about the lack of food and sanitation, which they usually don’t. They miss their brother, my uncle, and some of my cousins, like I do because they were all killed.

The joy of the ceasefire is fleeting. It is tainted by the deep scars of war, which cannot be erased by a mere promise of peace. The trauma lingers, and for many, it will never fade. The streets are crowded with people whose relief is matched only by their exhaustion, a collective weariness borne of suffering.

I cannot help but think of a friend of mine, whose love story has just ended this morning, which has driven me to reflect on the cost of war and the fragile nature of hope. She had been in love with a man for nine years. Despite the obstacles that stood in their way due to the economic and social gap, they had always stayed connected, always held on to the belief that one day, they would be able to build a life together. Just a day before the ceasefire, they spoke on the phone, making plans for their future. She fled to Egypt and he is in Gaza: They were finally ready to begin their lives together, to marry after years of waiting. I always knew they were in a relationship but I never asked her and she never told me. I respected her boundaries and concerns. But as they spoke, a bomb hit his home. His children, his family—everyone he loved—was killed. He too, was severely injured, suffering from internal bleeding and amputations. He was taken to the hospital but passed away this morning.

This man, the one my friend had waited for, died while they were speaking on the phone while promising her to renovate her house and assuring her that her home will be clean before she returns to Gaza. His death came just as their hope for a new beginning was within reach. The loss was not just him, but their future, the life they had both dreamed of. She never admitted to me that she loved him, but today, she posted his picture on Facebook, mourning the man she lost. She wrote that Gaza had lost one of its greatest men. When I called her to ask if the man she was referring to had passed away, she confirmed it, her voice breaking as she spoke of his martyrdom.

Was a ceasefire announced yesterday? She thought his phone battery was off and was waiting to finish her conversation with him. He asked her to send him an unfiltered picture and she did. She told me she wrote something immediately after but he never read her words even though the last thing he saw was her picture. She shared how, in the moment she knew about his being killed, everything felt like a cruel twist of fate. How, after so many years of waiting and hoping, their dreams were shattered in an instant. She described how the pain of his death felt like a betrayal, as if the universe had stolen him away at the very moment they were closest to happiness. The promise they had made to each other, the hope they shared, was gone, leaving only the echoes of what could have been. As she spoke, I could hear the raw grief in her voice. The disbelief. The need to make sense of it all, but knowing that there is no explanation, no reason that could justify this tragedy.

Gaza, for all its beauty and hope, has always been a place where dreams are shattered, where futures are stolen, and where lives are turned upside down in an instant. Even with the ceasefire, even with the promise of peace, people like my friend are left with nothing but the painful remnants of what could have been—a life, a love, a future they will never have.

The joy of the ceasefire is real, but it is complicated. It is shadowed by grief, loss, and the haunting question of why so many lives were taken before they had the chance to live out their full potential. Can anyone bring me Eman, my friend, back, together with her 2 children, husband and sisters with their families? Can anyone bring me back my uncle and 5 cousins? Can anyone understand the fear I feel of just entering my home if I ever got the chance to? The scars of the genocide may never fully heal, but the resilience of the people in Gaza will endure, even as they face the impossible task of rebuilding from the ashes.