Smoke billowed over Gaza City on October 6, 2025, as ceasefire negotiations unfolded, yet for many, including myself, hope felt like a distant memory. The cycle of despair had become all too familiar; each announcement of potential peace had been met with disappointment, leaving a profound sense of skepticism.
As I sat in the quiet of my family’s tent, a temporary refuge since our displacement from Gaza City, I scoured the news for any glimmer of hope. The U.S. president proclaimed, “This is a great day for the world,” upon the announcement of a partial ceasefire agreement. Yet, after two years of relentless violence and suffering, such statements felt hollow. Was this truly a turning point, or merely another fleeting promise?
The situation in Gaza had reached catastrophic levels. Reports indicated that nearly 900,000 people had been displaced, with the remaining population enduring unimaginable hardships. I had joined the ranks of the displaced just a month prior, fleeing to what was supposed to be a safer southern region, only to find that the bombs continued to fall. The thought of returning home, even to the remnants of what once was, ignited a flicker of life within me—a fleeting moment of peace amidst chaos.
Children, like my five-year-old brother, clung to the hope of returning to normalcy. “Will we go back home? Can I play with my cousins again?” he asked, a poignant reminder of the innocence lost in this conflict. Families have been torn apart, and lives suspended since the war escalated in 2023. The prospect of a ceasefire, while promising, could not erase the scars of displacement or the harsh realities of winter approaching without shelter.
The potential end of hostilities could mean relief from the desperate conditions we faced—sleeping in the streets, battling the elements, and struggling against starvation. It could restore our access to basic necessities like food and medicine, which have been increasingly scarce. However, the expectation that we should feel grateful for such basic rights is a bitter pill to swallow. These are not favors; they are fundamental human rights.
As I followed the news of the ceasefire negotiations, my heart raced with a mix of hope and trepidation. The final minutes of discussions were met with cautious optimism, as smiles flickered across the faces of my fellow displaced. Yet, I couldn’t help but question why it took two years of suffering for this moment to arrive. The toll of the war has been profound, reshaping identities and forging resilience in the face of unimaginable loss.
In the tent camps, the term “ceasefire” rings hollow. Previous negotiations had ended with promises unfulfilled, leaving families like mine in limbo. A ceasefire cannot rebuild homes or restore the stability that has been shattered. The emotional and psychological scars run deep; the trauma of living under constant threat cannot be undone by mere agreements.
For those who have lost loved ones, a ceasefire offers no solace. The grief of families mourning their dead cannot be assuaged by the cessation of violence. The echoes of loss linger long after the fighting stops, as memories of those who have been taken away haunt the living.
While headlines may urge us to be hopeful, the fragility of that hope is palpable. After the last ceasefire was broken in March, fear seeped back into our hearts. We learned to temper our enthusiasm, knowing that the name “Israel” carries with it a history of broken promises. Yet, we continue to chase the possibility of peace, clinging to the hope that this ceasefire might be a step toward healing.
I yearn for the day when laughter fills the streets again, when children can return to school, and when the cafes of Gaza are bustling with life. I dream of a future where the tables are laden with food, and faces are free from the shadows of pain.
As I write this, a sense of survival courses through me. I have endured these two years of genocide, and I remain alive to share my story. With each word, I hold onto the hope that Gaza will breathe freely once more.
