With a ceasefire in Gaza, hope comes with the sting of doubt

1 January 2025

ASI write this, the sounds around me are a chaotic symphony of celebratory gunshots and chanting from the streets mingling with the laughter of my nieces and nephews in a strange sense of joy. We hold our breath, unsure of how to feel, because in Gaza, joy is a rare luxury, one that comes with the sting of doubt.

This is our reality: we are clinging to the faintest hope – a hope born from the uncertain promise of a ceasefire that has just been announced after more than 15 months of war. But we also feel the weight of history. Every past ceasefire in Gaza has been fragile, and fleeting. We’ve seen the world make promises before, only to have them broken by the same forces that continue to tear us apart.

This time, as the world watches, we know the stakes are impossibly high because of how much we have already suffered and how desperate our living conditions are. The terms of the agreement are clear: humanitarian corridors to allow in aid, prisoner exchanges, and a complete end to the violence.

These aren’t just political agreements – they are lifelines for us in Gaza, where almost everything has been destroyed, the electricity and water has been cut, and we have been forced to go without food. This agreement is the difference between survival and more suffering.

But the future remains unclear. We know the ceasefire is not permanent and that it might break at any moment.

For 15 months, we’ve lived in a constant state of uncertainty. Every day has been an agonizing wait for the next bomb, the next blow to our fragile existence. But today, we are at a crossroads. The thought of an end to this war – of breathing freely again – is so close, yet so distant. We’ve been here before, standing on the edge of hope, only to see it crumble.

A ceasefire is just the beginning

We’ve learned the hard way that a ceasefire is just the beginning. It’s a chance to breathe, to mourn, and to rebuild. But it doesn’t erase the trauma, the devastation, or the immense loss we carry. Around 90% of Gaza’s residents have been displaced. Entire towns lie in ruins, yet the spirit of our people remains unbroken.

In the ashes, we dream of planting new seeds, of finding a way back to some semblance of normalcy. But that dream is haunted by the shadows of our destroyed homes, the men killed leaving their wives as widows, the parents killed turning their children into orphans, and the 15 months of horror and trauma we have been forced to endure. How do we celebrate when we’ve lost so much?

Still, in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza – where my family has been living for over a year after being displaced from our home in Gaza City – the atmosphere is electric. There are over a million forcibly displaced people here. I see mothers packing their bags, filling them with clothes and hard memories. Their kids have sparkles in their eyes at the thought of going back to school, seeing their neighbours who stayed in the north, and playing in their yard or familiar streets again without being scared that a missile or shell could end their lives.

The sad truth is much of what they are hoping to return to has been destroyed. I remember interviewing a mother who had lost her husband in an airstrike and is now raising four kids alone. Her eyes were filled with sorrow, but her words were defiant: “I don’t care if my home is gone. I’ll live in a tent on the ruins, as long as it’s where my children were born. This is where my heart belongs.”

The strength in her voice stays with me. It’s the resilience that defines us, that keeps us going even when everything else is torn apart.

Then there’s Ahmed, a 76-year-old man displaced from Beit Hanoun in North Gaza, which has been almost entirely depopulated and destroyed. He said: “I can’t forget the olive tree outside our house. It’s all I have left in my mind.”

In the face of such loss, we all search for something to hold on to. It’s not just a tree, it’s a piece of home – a symbol of everything that’s been taken from us and everything we hope to rebuild.

One father, whose children were killed by a missile strike while they were playing in the street, said: “I would give anything to rebuild, to make sure my children’s future isn’t defined by the scars of war.”

These words, echoing the pain of all who have lost someone, remind us that a ceasefire isn’t an end – it’s a beginning. The true work is yet to come.

More than the silence of guns

We will rebuild, we will heal, and we will demand justice – although true justice would be if this genocide was just a nightmare we could wake up from and not a reality we’ve had to survive.

We are not naive. We know peace requires more than silence from the guns. It requires accountability and a commitment by Israel and Hamas to never let this happen again.

Peace in Gaza is always fragile. But we will hold on, for we have no other choice.

Collecting the pieces and rebuilding will be difficult, but we have done it many times before. This time it will be more difficult because of the destruction of the economy and the totality of the destruction to homes, schools, hospitals, roads, power plants, and everything else.

Still, I have dreamed every night that this war will end. We have heard from neighbours in Gaza City that our house is still standing. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing it. I took my first steps there and celebrated my high school graduation. I dream of going back to my room and mending the parts of the house that have been destroyed.

We stand at the edge of hope, but I know better than to believe it’s over. Peace in Gaza is always fragile. But we will hold on, for we have no other choice. This is our truth, our plea, our unwavering desire for a future where our children grow up without fear, without war, and without the echoes of the past haunting them.

Let this be the beginning of something real. May the world hear our story, feel our pain, and stand with us in the pursuit of peace – not as a fleeting illusion, but as something that can last.

For me, this would mean a life without the constant terror of losing someone you love. It would mean: being able to go to sleep at night safely without thinking that the roof over your head might kill you; no more orphans; no more widows; going back to our simple, warm lives; people being able to rebuild their businesses and careers; the opportunity to work on our trauma – to be able to breathe again after holding our breath for over 15 months.

Edited by Eric Reidy.

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The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.