I have lost count of how many times I have clung to the hope of a ceasefire, only to watch it crumble into dust. As the war in Gaza stretches into the summer of 2024, the promise of ending this suffering has become nothing more than a cruel illusion. Every time the news mentions new negotiations, I feel a flicker of hope — a tiny, fragile flame that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. But deep down, I know the pattern all too well.
As time seemed to stand still in October, my life was suspended in a state of uncertainty. I made a list of what I would do on the first day after the war ends: reconnect with loved ones in Southern Gaza whom I cannot meet now, take a deep breath of freedom, contemplate what lies ahead, and grieve for those lost. In Gaza, we don’t have the privilege of properly mourning. Our days are consumed by an unforgiving routine: evacuating from one place to another, listening to the news, carrying water, searching for food, and gathering wood to make a fire. Soon, the familiar pattern emerges —negotiations collapse, the blame game begins, and hope slips through my fingers like sand…..more
