It has been a week since the ceasefire was announced in Gaza. For the first time in 15 months, the relentless sound of explosions has been replaced by silence. But this silence is not peace. It is a silence that screams loss, devastation, and grief – a halt in the devastation, not an end. It’s like standing amidst the ashes of the house, searching for something, anything, that has survived.
The images coming out of Gaza are painful. Hollow-eyed children stand in the ruins of what once was. Parents clutch the remains of toys, photographs, and clothes—fragments of a life that no longer exists. Each face tells a story of trauma and survival, of lives cut and torn apart. I can barely bring myself to look, but I force myself to keep from turning away from abandoning them. They are worth seeing.
When I called my mother after the ceasefire was announced, the first thing she said to me was: “Now we can grieve.” These words pierced through me like a blade. For months, there was no space to grieve. Fear of impending death consumed every waking moment, leaving no room for mourning. How do you grieve what you’ve lost when you’re fighting to survive? But now, as the bombs stop, the grief comes rushing in like a flood, overwhelming and unbelievable.
More than 47,000 people – men, women and children – died. Forty-seven thousand resurrected souls, their lives stolen in unimaginable ways. More than 100,000 were injured, many maimed for life. Behind these numbers are faces, dreams and families that will never be whole again. The scale of loss is so vast that it is impossible to comprehend, but in Gaza, grief is never abstract. It’s personal, it’s raw, and it’s everywhere.
People in Gaza are grieving for their loved ones, and they are also grieving for their homes. Losing a home is more than losing a physical structure. A friend of mine in Gaza, who also lost his house, told me, “A house is like a child of yours. It takes years to build, you take care of it, and you always want it to look its best.”
In Gaza, people often build their homes out of brick, sometimes with their own hands. Losing your home means losing security, comfort, and a place where love and memories are shared. A home is not just bricks and mortar. Where life unfolds. To lose it is to lose a piece of yourself, and in Gaza, countless families have lost that piece over and over again.
My parents’ house, the house that protected my childhood memories, was gone. Burnt to the ground, it is now a pile of ash and twisted metal. Six of my siblings’ homes were also destroyed, their lives reduced and scattered like the rubble of their walls. What remains are the stories we tell ourselves to survive—stories of resilience, endurance, and hope, perhaps. But even those who feel fragile now.
For those of us outside Gaza, the grief is compounded by guilt. Guilt for not being there, for not enduring the same terror as our loved ones, in order to live a life of relative safety while they suffer. It’s an unbearable tension – to be strong for them but to feel completely helpless. I try to hold on to the idea that my voice, my words, can make a difference, but even that is not enough for the magnitude of their pain.
My family’s story of loss is just one of tens of thousands. Entire neighborhoods were wiped out, and communities turned to dust. The scale of the devastation is beyond comprehension. Schools, hospitals, mosques, homes – all are reduced to ruins. Gaza has been stripped of its infrastructure, its economy shattered, and its people traumatized. And yet, somehow, they endure.
The resilience of the Palestinian people is inspiring and moving. Inspiring as they continue to survive, to rebuild, to dream of a better future despite the odds. Heartbreaking because no one should have to be this resilient. No one should have to endure this level of suffering just to exist.
But even as we feel comfortable now, we know that any ceasefire is temporary, by default. How could it be anything else when the root cause of this devastation – the occupation – remains? As long as Gaza is confined, as long as Palestinians are denied their freedom and dignity, as long as their land is occupied, as long as Israel is supported by the West to act with impunity, the cycle of violence will continue.
Ceasefires are not solutions; It is merely an interruption, a pause, a temporary postponement in a cycle of violence that has defined Gaza’s reality for too long. Without addressing the fundamental injustice, they are doomed to fail, leaving Gaza trapped in an endless cycle of destruction and despair.
True peace requires more than the end of the bombing. It requires an end to the blockade, to the occupation, to the systematic oppression that has made life in Gaza unbearable.
The international community cannot look away now that the bombs have stopped falling. They must hold Israel accountable for its actions. The work of rebuilding Gaza is important, but the work of addressing the root causes of this conflict is even more urgent. It requires political courage, moral clarity, and an unwavering commitment to justice. Anything less is a betrayal of the people of Gaza.
For my family, the road ahead is long. They will rebuild, as they always do. They will find a way to create a new sense of home among the ruins. But the scars of this genocide will never fade. My mother’s words – “Now we can grieve” – will echo in my mind forever, a reminder of the enormous human cost of this conflict.
As I write this, I am overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions: anger, sadness, and a glimmer of hope. Anger at the world for allowing such atrocities to happen, grief for the lives lost and homes destroyed, and hope that one day my people will know peace. Until then, grieve. We mourn for the dead, for the living, for the life we once knew and the life we still dream of.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial position.