I lay awake late on October 8, 2025, scrolling through my phone and journalist chat groups for updates while everyone else in the house was asleep. There were conflicting accounts from the ceasefire talks — of progress, setbacks, hope and doubt.
I finally went to sleep as the battery on my phone dwindled, occasionally stumbling over distant shelling that explained what my phone couldn’t do.
My wi-fi was dead when I awoke on October 9 just before dawn. I rushed to the roof, searching for an eSIM signal. As updates poured onto my phone, the announcement of a ceasefire agreement in Gaza was rising as soon as it was read.
I was saddened that we were the last to know as I examined the still-occupancies in the homes and tents. Then joy hit me. I yelled, “Wake up, the war is over.”
“Swear it,” you ask? my husband said. He was only partially awake at 6:45 a.m. I gave him the news, and gradually the rest of the house, including my father, sisters, and brother’s family, woke up to it. They had all been staying with me since being displaced from the north. My nine-year-old daughter Banias beaming in disbelief to the world.
Really, exactly? Are you serious”? She inquired before she jumped up in joy and sprang into tears.
A joy-filled little girl crying.
The blessing of Islam’s wedding
I was suddenly reminded of my friend’s wedding day by Banias’s joyous expression. Just two days earlier, Islam had visited me at home with her sister-in-law to discuss the wedding. During the first truce in February 2025, she and her husband had been engaged, but the wedding had to be postponed five times.
When her family fled south from the Shati refugee camp in western Gaza City amid air raids, she had already lost all of her belongings a week earlier. Her fiance’s family was also displaced. The couple and their spouses made the decision to get married on October 9 and agree to a small, quiet ceremony to end their lives.
But she was concerned when I saw Islam on October 7. She couldn’t find a dress. She said, “The dresses are worn out, covered in dust and fading white.”
She and her brother-in-law, Manar, had promised to find one, but Islam sighed and said, “I don’t feel like a bride.” I feel like I’m caught in a whirlpool”. She appeared defeated when her fiance called that day to say that he still hadn’t found a place to pitch their tent.
She still desired a brief celebration. “That’s all I want”, Islam told me. “My wedding feels like a day of mourning, not joy,” I said.
But she had erred.
“The ceasefire came on your wedding day, my friend. What a rare blessing, I thought.
![Journalists and families gather in the courtyard of the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah to await details of the ceasefire [Photo: Abdelhakim Abu Riash]](https://i0.wp.com/www.aljazeera.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/s3-1760701401.jpg?w=696&ssl=1)
The war’s “final hours”
I quickly donned my attire for the trip to Deir el-Balah’s Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, where journalists gather to discuss the most recent developments.
The streets were buzzing with news about the ceasefire. Some people expressed doubts while others erred with cautious optimism. I kept asking, “Could these be the final moments of the war?”
At the hospital, journalists and cameras lined the courtyard.
Nour, my coworker, grinned. She sighed “Finally.” Nour hadn’t seen her children — Alia, 14, and Jamal, 11 — for a year and a half, having sent them to safety in Egypt while she stayed to cover the war. She was hopeful that she might soon be reunited with them following a ceasefire.
People who had been separated from their families and neighbors began to gather around us to inquire whether the news was accurate.
A 30-something woman I’d seen during my visits to Al Jazeera’s tent at Al-Aqsa Hospital during the first half of the war greeted me. She was there to see her sister, who had been harmed by a bombing.
They claim that the conflict has ended and that there has been a ceasefire. Is this true”? she inquired.
Other displaced women wanted their own assurances, but other women overheard them. “So it’s certain”? they inquired.
Everyone became alarmed as a result of the noises of the overhead jets, but by midday, Israel’s cabinet had ratified the agreement, which started to resemble a real agreement.
A displaced woman from Beit Hanoon told me, “We’re relieved the bombing stopped, but we don’t feel joy. What joy can we experience when everything is gone? Our homes no longer exist. Our city is destroyed”.
People were worn out after two years of constant bombardment.
I made my way to al-Nuwairi Hill in central Gaza in the afternoon, close to the refugee camp for Nuseirat. Thousands had gathered there on the sandy hill with their belongings, waiting to be allowed to travel north to their neighbourhoods in Gaza City.
One woman, who had three children, reportedly sat on her bundles for the night and demanded to be allowed back. She was unaware that her home was still in use, but the ceasefire provided one thing for her and many others: a chance to return.
Every house now had one of two fates: standing or destroyed. Even if it was bombed or hollowed out, “Standing” brought tears of joy. Heartache was meant by “Destroyed.”
![Maram Humaid poses with the newlyweds, Islam and Mohammad. [Courtesy of Maram Humaid]](https://i0.wp.com/www.aljazeera.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/IMG_4500-copy-1760701347.jpg?w=696&ssl=1)
Celebrations held in a shop that is empty
After a day of interviews, I was still able to attend Islam’s wedding, which took place inside a deserted Nuseirat camp. One of Islam’s relatives had rented the shop to shelter his newly displaced family just days earlier.
A small group of women sat on plastic chairs arranged neatly along the unfinished walls when I entered. A plain “kousha,” an old brown couch where Islam and Mohammad sat, was sat in the center.
The cheerful beat of wedding music filled the room.
Islam glowed with joy during the brief, modest celebration. The store’s atmosphere was filled with laughter and ulululation.
I hugged Islam and said, “See, the war ended on your wedding day, the day you called unlucky. My friend, today is a blessed day.
I joked as she approached her groom, “I just came from al-Nuwairi Hill.” People are already there. Do you intend to return north?”
He said, “If that’s true, I’ll take my bride and head north right now”!
I took a shared taxi on the way back home and listened as my fellow passengers debated the ceasefire. Everyone saw the first phase, which involved the exchange of prisoners and captives, as a test because many feared it wouldn’t hold.
cooking gas and chocolate
For most Palestinians in Gaza, the past week has been a mix of relief, fear, and anticipation.
On that first calm Thursday, people began making northward turns, frequently torn apart. We debated returning to or staying at my house. On Saturday, calls confirmed that our family home, my husband’s, and my brother’s were all destroyed. We didn’t get surprised because thousands of people had the same story.
That loss had already been endured by me. Our home was destroyed a year and a half ago, and I’d already started anew in rented accommodation, which saved us from the uncertainty and heartbreak that so many others now felt.
Discussions about returning had raged by Sunday. Although my father wanted to return, we made the decision to wait, especially as the prisoner exchanges began.
Life in Gaza remains nearly impossible — no water, services, communication, or power. A neighbor who traveled north warned us to stay put and that he had to travel far to get water from.
The journalist and activist Saleh Aljafarawi’s assassination, who had covered the war, was followed by devastation. He was murdered by local Israeli-backed militia amid clashes with Hamas.
We were terrified by Saleh’s death. Many people believe that this looming tragedy for Gaza was the result of internal conflict starting the Israeli army.
On Monday, attention turned to the prisoner exchanges. Families wept and savored. When both of her sons, who were believed to be dead, were released, a mother danced. Another man broke down after learning his wife and children had been killed. And in a cruel irony, Saleh’s brother Naji was freed the day after Saleh was buried.
Food prices were starting to decline on Tuesday. My daughter ran home, excited: “Mama, the chocolate that used to cost 18 shekels]$5.4] now costs six”! Then cooking gas arrived in true joy. You’ll cook on gas today for the first time in nine months, according to my husband’s message from the gas station!
A small piece of dignity
The old stove, which was soiled and soiled, was removed. When the first blue flame lit, we clapped and laughed, recording the moment on our phones like fireworks. It felt miraculous to have our first coffee brewed on a clean flame rather than on firewood filled with black soot. Over his cup, my father grinned.
“We’re reclaiming a small piece of dignity”, I thought.
By Wednesday, there was a new sense of calm. Instead of two hours, I cooked pasta in 20 minutes. It tasted like “normal life”. However, my father raised the possibility of returning on Thursday once more. He mentioned constructing a small shelter among our ruinates. I told him we should wait a bit longer. Palestinians who tried to return to their homes were already reported to have been killed by Israeli forces.
He accepted with a nod, moving slowly. “I can live with ruins”, he said, “but not without safety”.
As I listened to him, I thought about the stories that were still untold about the people who were rebuilding their lives from rubble. Since that is our only source of power, I had to wait for the solar panels to charge before writing. “Unplug everything”! My husband frequently yells. Real electricity is my new wish, along with the return of gas, to put an end to this constant battle of energy and exhaustion.
