A true ceasefire, or just more waiting?

Here we go again; back in the same endless loop.

The war in Gaza enters its twenty-first month. Streets lie in ruins. Smoke curls above. Israeli forces have killed at least 50,000 Palestinians, with some estimates reaching over 150,000. They were killed by airstrikes, shelling, and gunfire—in their homes, under the rubble, and on the streets.

Behind closed doors, a new ceasefire deal is in the works. Qatar and Egypt broker the talks. The US backs it. Israel agrees. Hamas still weighs its options. Sixty days of quiet. Ten Israeli hostages returned. Eighteen bodies given back. Hundreds of Palestinian prisoners freed. Partial Israeli pullback from places like the Netzarim corridor.

Aid trucks roll in—up to 600 a day. Food and fuel. A fragile lifeline. Three steps: pause, release, rebuild. But demands stay firm. Israel says Hamas must disarm. Hamas wants Israel out—completely.

A new proposal. The war goes on. The killing does not stop.

People don’t react. They check their phones, then put them down. They look at the sky and pray. No one claps. No one speaks; just waiting.

We’ve heard it before. The same headlines. The same hope that flickers and dies.

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And still, we ask ourselves, quietly:

Will it be real this time?

The question no longer needs a voice. It breathes through clenched jaws, in hands that shake without rest, in eyes too dry to cry again. In Gaza, the question is not asked. It is lived minute by minute, explosion by explosion.

Time doesn’t pass. It drags. Each second slips by like a rope through your hands. Burning, vanishing before you can hold it. The air never feels still. Even silence trembles — not with peace, but with waiting.

There is no safe hour. No pause.

Even sleep is war. If we manage to sleep at all, that is.

The constant buzz of drones

The sound never leaves. It hovers above the tents, above the rubble, inside your bones. It follows you into the toilet, into your sleep, into your dreams. You try to ignore it, but it’s louder than you ever thought possible. It’s a warning — always a warning. You are seen. You are not safe.

Children don’t flinch anymore. They know the pattern: the buzz, the scream, the sudden silence, then the strike. A second of stillness, then the earth explodes. Walls crumble. Glass rains. Bodies hit the floor before the sound even fades.

You put your hands over your ears. You shut your eyes. You count seconds. You listen for the next one. You listen so hard your head pounds. Your skull feels tight, like it might split open. The fear lives behind your eyes. In your chest. In your gut. You don’t breathe; you wait.

In that moment, memories rush in — faces, voices, places you no longer have. Your mind starts asking: Will we be next? Or will we lose someone else this time?

We are caught in a draining loop of depletion with no certain end, without knowing when it will end. When someone you love is martyred, the memories of happier faces flood your mind — familiar smiles, voices, and places that once brought joy. Yet the grief starts all over again, as if no progress was ever made, dragging you back to the very beginning.

Sometimes you think it’s quiet. Then the hum returns, low and cruel. You wish for silence, but silence here is a lie. Silence means it’s coming another time.

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What happens when a city is displaced?

No one calls it evacuation anymore. It’s not a rescue. Some leave. Not because they want to, but because they want to live — or at least try. They grab what they can: a torn ID, a bottle of water, and some clothes. They leave behind homes they built brick by brick. Walls that hold their children’s heights, names, and laughter. Cabinets still full of plates. Beds still warm. Doors they once opened every morning to sunlight.

They don’t leave because they’re ready. They leave because the sky tells them to — leaflets falling from planes, a short message on the news, a whisper passed from one neighbour to another. They leave because they know what happens to those who wait too long.

So, they walk away from photos still hanging on the wall, from toys still under the couch, from clothes still drying on the line.

They carry their hope quietly, maybe — maybe — they’ll come back. But they know: when they return, if they return, the house will not be there.

Others stay. They stand in the doorway, arms crossed. “I’m not leaving again,” they say. “If death comes, it will find me here.” They have faced displacement once, twice, ten times. They are tired of moving, tired of losing everything over and over. 

They choose to stay and die in the place that still remembers them. There are no good choices. Only ways to lose. Move or stay, either way, you suffer.

Hunger and famine

Hunger comes before the morning light. Before the first explosion, before the first scream, the stomach wakes you.

You sit up, dizzy. Your body is empty. Some families share one meal a day — a few spoons of rice, a slice of dry bread, and tea without sugar.

Children stop asking. They already know. They watch their parents search the corners of the kitchen again, as if something might appear. But there’s nothing.

Markets are quiet. Shelves collect dust. If food exists, it’s priced like gold. One tomato costs more than a worker earns in a day. If they work and if there is a tomato.

Aid trucks come late or not at all. People stand in line for hours. Then they go home with nothing. Hunger is not sudden. It grows slowly. It waits with you.

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Disease and the lack of medicine

People with chronic illnesses suffer first and worst. The pharmacies are empty. Even medicine that was rare before is now gone completely. Insulin, asthma spray, blood pressure pills, and painkillers are scarce—and if found at all, they are expensive.

Their bodies shrink. Their skin changes. They breathe harder. Every hour gets heavier.

They wait, not for a cure, just for something to ease the pain. But it never comes.

Families sit beside their sick. They watch them fade, slowly. They hold their hands, helpless.

The false promise of ceasefire

We are worn down. Our bodies move like we’re running through sand — strenuous effort without momentum. Our eyes carry the grief of sleepless nights — a grief that sharpens everything and numbs it all at once. We move through it like wading through floodwaters, clinging to hope like it’s the last thread stitching us together.

The occupation plays with our nerves. Every time there’s talk of a ceasefire, something stirs in us. A moment of stillness. We pause. We almost let ourselves believe.

Then the talks collapse. Just like before.

March 2025. A 60-day ceasefire begins in January. It doesn’t last. Israel delays prisoner releases. Refuses to withdraw. Blocks aid. Cuts fuel. Water runs out. Hospitals fail. On 18 March, it bombs Gaza. Over 400 killed in one night. The deal ends in fire. Again. No warning. No justice. Just another promise broken.

Hope shatters. Not with noise — but inside us. Quiet and sharp. The kind of break you feel but can’t explain.

Every day, we fight the urge to disappear, to give up. We drag ourselves out of bed, forcing ourselves to face the same harsh routine. Our energy drains, but the world doesn’t stop. The clock’s relentless ticking — a constant reminder that time moves, even as we struggle to hold on.

And even all these words — every sentence, every line — don’t begin to capture a fraction of what we carry.

We are still here

We are exhausted. Not tired — emptied out, stripped of everything we once had inside.

We sit in silence, not because we choose it, but because we don’t know what’s left to say.

We look around us and try to remember who we were before this —

before the hunger,

before the drones,

before silence swallowed every sound we loved.

We miss our old selves.

Not the strong, heroic version the world imagines —

the real one.

The one that smiled without effort.

That had morning routines and opened windows and bread on the table.

We are not heroes.

We are not symbols.

We are a people. We want to live.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.