It’s been a week that a ceasefire was declared in Gaza. For the first time in 15 months, the incessant noise of the explosions was replaced by silence. But this silence is not peace. It is a silence that shouts at loss, devastation and sorrow – a break in destruction, not its end. It’s like standing in the middle of the ashes of a house, looking for something, anything, which has survived.
The images from Gaza are obsessive. Children with hollow eyes stand in the rubble of what was once their house. Parents keep the leftovers of toys, photographs and clothing – fragments of a life that no longer exists. Each face tells a story of trauma and survival, interrupted and torn lives. I can barely resolve to look at myself, but I force myself because it is diverting, it’s like abandoning them. They deserve to be seen.
When I called my mother after the cease-fire announcement, the first thing she told me was: “Now we can mourn. These words pierced me like a blade. For months, there was no room for sorrow. The fear of an imminent death consumed every moment of awakening, leaving no room for mourning. How to cry what you lost when you fight to survive? But now, while the bombs stop falling, the grief flows like a flow, crushing and relentless.
More than 47,000 people – men, women and children – are dead. Forty-seven thousand souls extinct, their lives stolen inumaginally. More than 100,000 people are injured, many of which are mutilated for life. Behind these figures hide faces, dreams and families that will never be whole again. The extent of the losses is so vast that it seems impossible to grasp, but in Gaza, sorrow is never abstract. It’s personal, it’s raw and it’s everywhere.
The inhabitants of Gaza cry their loved ones, but also their home. The loss of a house is much more than the loss of a physical structure. One of my friends in Gaza, who also lost her house, said to me: “A house is like your child. Its construction takes years and you take care of it, always wanting it to be at its best.
In Gaza, people often build their brick house by brick, sometimes with their own hands. Losing your house means loss of safety, comfort, of a place where love is shared and where memories are created. A house is not only made up of bricks and mortar; This is where life takes place. Losing it is losing a piece of yourself, and in Gaza, countless families have lost this piece again and again.
My parents’ house, the house that housed my childhood memories, has disappeared. Burned to the ground, it is only a bunch of ash and twisted metal. Six houses of my brothers and sisters were also destroyed, their lives uprooted and dispersed like the debris of their walls. What remains are stories that we are racing to survive-stories of resilience, endurance, hope perhaps. But even these feel fragile now.
For those of us outside Gaza, sorrow is aggravated by guilt. Guilt not to be there, not to endure the same terror as our loved ones, to live a life in relative security while they suffer. It is an unbearable tension: wanting to be strong for them but feeling completely helpless. I try to keep the idea that my voice, my words can make a difference, but even it seems insufficient to the extent of their pain.
The story of loss of my family is only tens of thousands. Whole districts have been wiped out, communities reduced to dust. The extent of destruction exceeds understanding. Schools, hospitals, mosques and houses are all reduced to ruins. Gaza was stripped of its infrastructure, its broken economy, its traumatized population. And yet, in one way or another, they persist.
The resilience of the Palestinian people is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Inspiring because they continue to survive, rebuild, dream of a better future despite obstacles. Tearing because no one should have as resilient. No one should endure this level of suffering just to exist.
But even if we now feel relief, we know that any ceasefire is temporary, by default. How can it be otherwise when the deep cause of this devastation-occupation-remains? As long as Gaza is under blockade, as long as the Palestinians are refused their freedom and their dignity, as long as their land is occupied and as long as Israel is supported by the West to act with impunity, the cycle of violence will continue.
The ceases are not solutions; These are only interruptions, breaks, a momentary stay in a cycle of violence that has defined the reality of Gaza for far too long. Without remedying the underlying injustice, they are doomed to failure, leaving Gaza trapped in an endless loop of destruction and despair.
True peace requires more than the end of bombing. This requires the end of the blockade, occupation and systemic oppression that made life in Gaza unbearable.
The international community can no longer look away now that the bombs have stopped falling. They must hold Israel responsible for his actions. Gaza’s reconstruction work is important, but that aimed at attacking the deep causes of this conflict is more urgent. This requires political courage, moral clarity and an unshakable commitment to justice. Nothing less would be a betrayal to the population of Gaza.
For my family, the way to go is long. They will rebuild, as they always do. They will find a way to create a new feeling of belonging in the middle of the ruins. But the scars of this genocide will never diminish. My mother’s words – “now we can mourn” – will remain forever engraved in my mind, reminding me of the immense human cost of this conflict.
As I write these lines, I am overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions: anger, sorrow and a glimmer of hope. Anger against the world for having allowed such atrocities to happen, sadness for lost lives and destroyed houses, and hope that one day, my people will experience peace. In the meantime, we are in mourning. We mourn the dead, the living, the life that we have known in the past and the life that we still dream of.
The opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
