In Gaza, Ceasefire Will Be a Chance to Finally Breathe

Part of the Series

Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation

Ever since Israel began its war on Gaza in October 2023, I felt as if time had stopped. Every day was the same, stripped of meaning or hope. My family and I witnessed atrocities beyond description.

From the siege of tanks surrounding us to the terrifying evacuations under constant bombardment, every moment was a struggle for survival. I will never forget the sight of my mother bleeding before my eyes, and my feeling of helplessness to save her life. My home in the Zeitoun neighborhood of Gaza, where I was born and raised, once filled with laughter and love, is now a pile of rubble. The places I used to turn to for comfort in moments of frustration, those quiet and cherished corners of my world, have been reduced to ruins.

My dreams, too, were torn apart. I imagined celebrating my graduation surrounded by my family and friends, sharing smiles and joy. But those dreams vanished like smoke. Hunger became a constant companion, and all I wished for was a simple loaf of bread to ease the pain of emptiness tearing through my stomach.

For over a year, I have lived in an unending nightmare, as if descending into a hell without escape. And now, as Gaza stands on the threshold of a ceasefire, I find it hard to believe that this torment could finally come to an end.

I have clung to this moment in my mind, willing it into existence through the chaos, imagining what it might feel like to finally hear the silence of peace. I dream of the day when the bombs stop, the smoke clears, and life, in whatever fragile form it could take, might begin again. I have even made plans — tiny, hopeful plans for the things I will do when the nightmare is over. Yet deep down, I always knew: no ceasefire could ever bring back the faces I yearned for, the laughter now lost forever, or the world I once called home. Nothing could truly undo the devastation.

But even so, reports of a ceasefire bring something I had almost forgotten — relief. A chance to breathe, if only for a moment. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I let the tears come, not in secret, not forced back for the sake of survival, but freely. They fall not just from grief, but from the release of a pain I’ve carried for too long.

In the war, there was no room for emotions. Every thought, every ounce of strength, was consumed by the singular need to survive. But now, with the weight of war lifted — if only slightly — I can finally feel. I can let myself mourn, not just for what I’ve lost, but for the person I was before all of this. Perhaps in this fragile peace, I can begin to find pieces of myself again, even if they don’t fit together like they used to.

For the first time, I may walk the streets of Gaza — Al-Rimal, Salah Al-Din — with a free spirit, without the constant fear of being bombed. I’ll finally let myself remember the beautiful moments I once had in these places.

I’ll visit the remnants of my home, searching through the rubble for my belongings — my books, my clothes, anything that might bring back a piece of the life I once knew. And for the first time, after a year of longing, I’ll stand by my mother’s and grandmother’s graves. I’ll tell them how deeply I’ve missed them and how much I wished they were still with us, knowing how desperately they had waited for this moment.

Most importantly, I may finally be able to reunite with my aunt, uncle and cousins, who were forced to evacuate to the south in the early days of the war. I can hardly imagine that after this long and painful separation, I may get to see them and hold them close again.

I promised them, with tears streaming down my face and my heart almost bursting from happiness, that I would be the first one to welcome them.

I have longed for the day when we can sit together, laughing, sharing stories, sipping tea, and savoring chocolate — simple joys that once felt so far away. I had dreamed of this moment for so long, and even now, it feels almost unreal.

For the first time, I saw smiles return to the faces of my family and neighbors, despite the weight of pain and loss still lingering in their eyes. The streets of Gaza came alive as people poured out to celebrate this long-awaited moment. Children’s laughter and joyful chants of “ceasefire, ceasefire” echoed through the air, their voices breaking through the silence of sorrow.

Fireworks lit up the somber skies, painting them with fleeting colors of hope. People began cleaning the streets with renewed energy, preparing to welcome evacuees from the south. Some even bought new clothes, as if to wear their joy on the outside, a symbol of resilience and a fresh start. Dessert shops buzzed with activity, crafting an array of sweet treats to share with everyone, turning this moment of relief into a celebration that felt almost like Eid.

There was a quiet understanding that this ceasefire, though temporary, had given us something priceless — a moment to reconnect with what had been lost. In the midst of the joy and relief, there was a profound sense of gratitude for simply being alive. We hadn’t forgotten the past, but in that fleeting peace, we allowed ourselves to remember how to hope again. The road ahead will still be challenging, but for now, we hold onto the truth that even in our darkest hours, life finds a way to bloom once more.