Roaa Shamallakh
Now that a
ceasefire has been agreed to in Gaza, the bombs will stop falling, and the
world will breathe a sigh of relief. There will be celebrations of peace, even
if temporary, nations will pat themselves on the back, and the media will move
on to the next trending crisis. Yet, for those of us who survived, the war
hasn’t ended—it has merely transformed.
For us, the war
began long before October 7, 2023, and continues in the ashes of what was once
our home. The world’s ceasefire is a fabricated pause in our endless torment.
The world seeks its own resolution, a quick fix to soothe the conscience, but
for us, the ceasefire is just another fleeting moment in a long history of
erasure.
Before the war,
Sheikh Ijleen wasn’t just my neighborhood—it was a universe unto itself.
It was the place
where my family planted grapevines and fig trees for centuries. It was where I
learned to walk among the grapevines, where I came of age. My grandfather’s
grave was there, and so were the faces of neighbors whose kindness I remember.
These were not just landmarks; they were the thread that wove my sense of self.
Today, Sheikh Ijleen exists only in my memory. What was once my home is now
nothing but ruins.
The bombs didn’t
just explode the buildings there; they also erased the essence of who we were.
The IOF didn’t only destroy our homes—they declared our memories illegal. They
took my street, my family’s lands, and even the cemetery where my ancestors rest,
and they turned it all into a “military zone.”
Now, the very
place that held my history and my identity is lost, buried beneath layers of
rubble and cold, indifferent military control. The trees that once shielded us
from the summer sun are now crushed and their roots are severed. My room, where
the setting sun used to paint the walls with golden hues, no longer exists. It
is not just the destruction of a place; it is the destruction of memory, of
home, of family, and of history.
This erasure is
not a mere side effect of war; it is a calculated effort to sever the bonds
between people and their land, to strip us of our identity so that we become
faceless, nameless victims in the global narrative. The world has never asked
for our story before, and now it wants to remember us only as casualties and
numbers.
Gaza’s true
story is lost in the rubble, overshadowed by the broader political calculations
that govern its existence.
Our suffering is
made digestible for the international audience, while the deeper, more profound
losses are hidden beneath the surface. Sheikh Ijleen is gone, but it lives in
my memory, and it is a memory I refuse to let die.
The false
resolution of the ceasefire
As the world
celebrates the ceasefire, we are left to question its meaning. What does it
truly signify for us in Gaza?
It is not an end
to the war; it is simply a temporary lull in the violence.
It does not undo
the devastation, nor does it heal the wounds inflicted on us.
A ceasefire is
nothing more than a global performance, a signal that the world has done enough
to appease its own conscience.
But for us, it
is nothing more than an intermission in an endless tragedy.
When the bombs
stop, the trauma does not fade.
The streets
still lie in ruins. The poisoned water still courses through our bodies, and
the toxic memories of the bombings linger like an invisible disease.
We don’t return
to normal—we adapt to a new kind of existence, one that is born from the
wreckage of our past and the uncertainty of our future.
A ceasefire does
not undo the loss of homes, of lives, of family members. It does not bring back
what has been destroyed. It does not restore dignity, nor does it heal the
wounds of displacement.
For the world, a
ceasefire is the end of the story, the resolution that allows the audience to
turn the page. But for us, it is just another silence, another chapter in a
story that never truly ends. The bombs may stop, but the wounds they leave
behind will continue to bleed.
And the silence
that follows is not peace—it is the deafening quiet of lives left in limbo,
waiting for the next round of violence to begin.
The
international community reduces Gaza to an event: a spectacle of suffering
consumed in headlines and sound bites as if our lives are nothing more than a
tragic narrative with a predictable plot. Gaza has become a stage, where every
tragedy follows the same story line—suffering, climax, and resolution. We are
portrayed as either heroes, martyrs, symbols of resistance, or victims of
oppression. Yet, the truth is far more complicated.
Our pain is
reduced to symbols, our suffering treated as an image rather than the brutal
reality of our lives. Behind every headline is a human being—living through the
unimaginable. The headline shows the fire without showing people who are
burning behind them.
We refuse to be
erased
Even as the
world turns away, Gaza refuses to be forgotten.
My neighborhood,
Sheikh Ijleen, may no longer exist in the physical world, but it lives in my
memory.
The streets I
ran through, the fig trees that once grew in my yard, the faces of my
neighbors—they are etched in my mind, and the sunset over the sea from my
window is as vivid as ever. I refuse to let them be erased.
From Cairo, I
hear the hum of civilian planes, and it pulls me back to the roar of F-16s—the
only kind of planes I knew before I left Gaza.
The bombing may
stop, but the sounds of destruction will always be with us, echoing through our
thoughts.
And then they
speak of a “humanitarian pause.” How ironic—how hollow—to call it a
“humanitarian pause” when we have lived through the very core of inhumanity.
How can the
world call it a pause when our humanity has been shattered, when our homes, our
memories, and our very existence have been systematically erased?
How can the
world declare a pause when we are left to pick up the pieces of a life that no
longer exists, to live with the haunting residue of what was once ours?
The bloodshed
may stop, but the stains will never leave our hands. The bodies may be cleared
from the streets, but the images will never leave our minds. The world will
move on, thinking they have fixed the problem with a ceasefire, but for us, it
is just another lie in a long history of indifference.
Gaza is not a
problem that can be solved with a pause—it is a wound that will never heal.
So now that a
ceasefire has been declared and the world celebrates, remember this: the blood
may no longer stain the streets, but it will stain our memories. The bombing
may have stopped, but we still hear it in our ears. The world may think it’s
over, but for us, it is a continuous nightmare and a burden of existence.
Ahmed Ahmed and
Ruwaida Kamal Amer
It is a pattern
with which Gazans are painfully familiar: as reports of an imminent ceasefire
agreement between Israel and Hamas began swirling earlier this week, the
Israeli military unleashed hell on the besieged Strip, killing at least 62
Palestinians in the past 24 hours.
Among the latest
victims was 25-year-old activist and children’s entertainer Ahmed Al-Shawa, who
was killed along with several of his colleagues in an airstrike on Gaza City’s
Al-Daraj neighborhood. Al-Shawa was known among Palestinians in the Strip as “the
smile ambassador” for his sense of humor, energy, kind-heartedness, and passion
for his work: bringing joy to Gaza’s children despite the harsh conditions of
the ongoing genocide.
Rajab Al-Rifi, a
neighbor and colleague of Al-Shawa’s, is unable to come to terms with the loss
of his friend. Just two days earlier, on Jan. 12, they had put on an
entertainment show together for dozens of displaced children. They had
discussed their hopes that a ceasefire would enable them to expand their work,
and planned a series of additional activities to help children cope with their
trauma, including mental health workshops.
Al-Rifi
explained that Al-Shawa was loved by everyone around him due to his generosity.
“He sometimes put on three or four shows in one day for hundreds of children,”
Al-Rifi told +972. “Every Wednesday since the beginning of genocide, he would
do a show by himself in Gaza City’s Municipal Park, where dozens of people have
sought refuge. He aimed to put smiles on children’s faces despite their ongoing
trauma.”
Tragically,
Al-Shawa was killed as he was on his way to join colleagues for an event at a
makeshift tent camp in central Gaza City. His death has left a deep sense of
grief among the people of Gaza, especially those who knew him. “He was a source
of strength and hope to his colleagues, friends, and children,” Al-Rifi said.
“What did he do to deserve being killed like this?”
Despite
Al-Rifi’s earlier optimism about an imminent ceasefire, he now fears for his
own safety and has canceled planned activities due to the intensification of
Israeli attacks. “Anyone in Gaza could be a target,” he said. “I fear I could
be next.”
‘I dream of the
moment I will meet my children again’
Despite the
relentless Israeli bombings across the Gaza Strip, many Palestinians remain
cautiously optimistic that this time a ceasefire could hold. In some tent
camps, displaced residents were already celebrating in the belief that they
might soon return home — even as their houses lie in ruins — and reunite with
family members from whom they have been separated.
Laila Al-Masri,
55, who fled the Israeli army’s assault on the northern city of Beit Lahiya two
months ago, now resides in a makeshift tent in Gaza City’s Al-Yarmouk Stadium.
She remains desperately hopeful for the moment she can return to her house and finally
bury two of her three sons, who were killed in an Israeli airstrike in November
2024 and whose bodies remain trapped under the rubble of their home. Her
remaining son and daughter are displaced in the southern part of the Strip.
“I lost two of
my sons, and I pray to God day and night for this ceasefire to succeed before I
lose any more loved ones,” she told +972. “I can accept living in a tent on the
ruins of my house, as long as we are no longer at risk of being killed at any moment.”
Despite the
unimaginable losses, Al-Masri remains cautiously hopeful about the future. “I
believe that, in the coming days, we will be able to return to our homes,
access food and clean water, and see our children wearing warm clothes and
returning to their studies,” she said. “No one can truly understand the pain we
have been enduring — the fear, the starvation, the sleepless nights in the
cold. A ceasefire would give us the chance to rebuild our lives and start
over.”
This sense of
optimism is shared by Salem Habib, a 45-year-old from Jabalia refugee camp who
has been struggling with the severe hardships of his displacement in the
so-called “humanitarian zone” of Al-Mawasi, near Khan Younis in southern Gaza.
“I am very optimistic about the success of the truce,” he said. “I haven’t
slept while thinking about that moment.”
For over a year,
Habib has been separated from his three sons and other relatives who remained
in the north of the Strip when he evacuated southward with his wife and
daughters at the start of the war. “My eldest son Ahmed was wounded and in a
difficult condition,” Habib recounted. “I used to talk to him every day, saying
‘You have to be strong and endure the pain so we can meet again.’”
The thought of
losing his sons has consumed Habib. “This was my great fear: that I would lose
one of them and return to the north only to not see them alive,” he said. “That
is why I await the [final] ceasefire announcement with great patience. I dream
of the moment when I will meet my children and grandchildren again.”
Life in the
displacement camp, far from Habib’s neighborhood and community, has been
extremely difficult, and he is desperate to return home. “If I find it in
ruins, I will put up a tent and live there anyway,” he said, adding that he has
already begun sorting through his belongings in preparation. “We are all
waiting for the moment when we will be able to rest from this ongoing nightmare
of bombing, killing, and hunger.”
‘What will be
left of our lives?’
But not everyone
is so optimistic about the future. Momen Ashraf, 35, who asked to use a
pseudonym for safety reasons, is skeptical of the reports of a deal. “Every
time there’s talk of a ceasefire, the situation gets worse,” he said. “It’s as
if the Israeli forces don’t want anyone left alive in Gaza.”
Ashraf ran an
accessories shop next to his house on western Gaza City’s Tal Al-Hawa Street,
but he and his family were forced to abandon both under intense bombardment in
the first days of the war. In late October 2023, shortly after they had
evacuated, their house was bombed.
They were
subsequently displaced four more times to various temporary shelters, and are
now living in a relative’s house on Gaza City’s Al-Sahaba Street. Ashraf
currently operates a stall selling canned food to make a living for his family.
“Our life before
the war was not perfect due to the siege and bad economic situation in Gaza,
but it was a dream compared to what we’ve been through over the past year,”
Ashraf said. “Thirteen of my relatives were killed, and my 6-year-old son was
wounded two weeks ago. My home and livelihood were destroyed — for what?”
Ashraf believes
that Hamas bears some responsibility for giving Israel an excuse to launch its
genocidal war on Gaza after the October 7 attack, with innocent Palestinians
forced to pay the price. “Israel has been killing us since 1948, but the
surprise attack of October 7 gave them a reason to kill more,” he said.
“Israeli forces
killed our loved ones and destroyed our homes, schools, streets, belongings,
and beautiful memories,” Ashraf continued. “Most people in Gaza want to live a
normal life with peace, we are tired of loss, humiliation, starvation, and
displacement. How many lives must be taken before this ends?”
For Ashraf, like
many others in Gaza, the announcement of a ceasefire offers little hope for
healing and reconstruction in the Strip. “Even if the ceasefire is real, we
will need years to recover from what we’ve endured,” he said. “And even then,
what will be left of our lives? If I survive this, I will do everything I can
to leave Gaza and start over. I don’t believe that anyone cares about us, even
the Palestinian factions.”
‘I know my house
was badly damaged. I can make do’
Saeed Al-Akhras,
a 32-year-old Arabic teacher from Gaza City who was displaced to Al-Mawasi, is
eager for the ceasefire to hold so he can go back to teaching and reunite with
his students. “I will return to the north on the first day of the ceasefire,” he
told +972. “I will return to my neighborhood and set up a tent to teach the
students there. I miss my students — I want their noise to return to my life.
“I haven’t slept
since we started getting the news reports about the deal,” he continued. “I was
forced to flee the north because of my fear for the safety of my three
children, and I feel that our return is very close. I hope that the deal will
succeed. We are tired and need the war to end so we can return to the north.”
While many of
the displaced are waiting to go back to their cities and neighborhoods in
northern Gaza, 29-year-old Narmin Kassab is desperate for the ceasefire to
begin so she can return to the southern city of Rafah — though she knows that
this may take time. Kassab had to flee Rafah in May when the Israeli army
invaded the city and destroyed her neighborhood of Tel As-Sultan, forcing her
to take refuge in a displacement camp in Deir Al-Balah.
“We know that
when the war ends our homes will not be returned to us, but at least we will no
longer hear the sound of bombing and news about more victims,” she said. “I
won’t go to Rafah immediately; we will stay in the camp because Tel As-Sultan
was completely destroyed and there is no infrastructure, and most importantly
no water.”
Jawaher Obaid,
who is currently residing in a tent in Al-Mawasi, is waiting to return to her
home in Gaza City’s Sheikh Radwan neighborhood and reunite with her daughters
who remained there when she fled with her son Walid. But Walid will not be with
her: he was killed in an Israeli airstrike last February.
“I do not know
how I will meet my daughters without having their brother Walid with me,” she
told +972. “I will be forced to come to the south often to visit my son’s
grave. I will not leave him alone here.”
And when she
returns north, she is not planning to take anything from the tent camp with
her. “The tent and everything in it reminds me of the worst days of my life,”
she explained. “I miss my daughters a lot, and I miss my house. I know it was
badly damaged but it is still standing; I can make do and live in it.”
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