Now, it is time to grieve in Gaza

A ceasefire was established in Gaza after a week. The constant sound of explosions has been replaced by silence for the first time in 15 months. However, there is no peace in this silence. It is a silence that screams loss, devastation, and grief – a pause in the destruction, not its end. It feels like standing amid the ashes of a home, searching for something, anything, that survived.

The images coming out of Gaza are haunting. In the rubble of what was once their home, young children with hollow eyes stand. Parents hold onto the remains of toys, photographs, and clothing – fragments of a life that no longer exists. Every face is a tale of trauma and resurrected lives, broken up and divided. I can’t help but stare because turning away makes me feel like I’m abandoning them. They deserve to be seen.

When I called my mother after the ceasefire was announced, the first thing she said to me was, “Now we can grieve”. I had a blade-like piercing force from those words. For months, there was no space for grief. Everywaking moment was suffocated by the fear of an imminent death, leaving no room for mourning. When you are battling to survive, how do you grieve for what you have lost? But now, as the bombs stop falling, the grief comes rushing in like a flood, overwhelming and unrelenting.

More than 47, 000 people – men, women, and children – are dead. Forty-seven thousand souls extinguished, their lives stolen in unimaginable ways. More than 100, 000 are injured, many maimed for life. Behind these numbers are faces, dreams, and families who will never be whole again. The scale of loss is so vast it feels impossible to grasp, but in Gaza, grief is never abstract. It is personal, it is raw, and it is everywhere.

People in Gaza grieve both for their homes and their loved ones. More than just the loss of a physical structure, a home’s loss is also. A friend of mine in Gaza, who also lost his home, told me, “A home is like a child of yours. It takes years to build, and you care for it, always wanting it to look its best”.

In Gaza, people often build their homes brick by brick, sometimes with their own hands. Losing your home means the loss of safety, of comfort, of a place where love is shared and memories are made. A home is not just bricks and mortar, it is where life unfolds. In Gaza, countless families have lost that piece over and over again because losing it means losing something.

My parents ‘ home, the house that sheltered my childhood memories, is gone. Burned to the ground, it is now a heap of ash and twisted metal. Six of my siblings’ homes have also been destroyed, and their lives have been strewn all over like the wall debris. What remains are stories we tell ourselves to survive – stories of resilience, of endurance, of hope, perhaps. But they now feel fragile as well.

For those of us outside Gaza, the grief is compounded by guilt. Being infuriated for not being present, for not enduring the same arousal as our loved ones, and for leading a relative safety lifestyle while suffering. It’s an intolerable tension, with the desire to stand up for them but feeling completely helpless. I try to hold onto the idea that my voice, my words, can make a difference, but even that feels inadequate against the magnitude of their pain.

My family’s story of loss is just one of tens of thousands. Communities have been left to their own, and entire neighborhoods have been destroyed. The scale of destruction is beyond comprehension. Schools, hospitals, mosques, and homes – all are reduced to rubble. Gaza has been stripped of its infrastructure, its economy shattered, its people traumatised. And yet, somehow, they endure.

The Palestinian people’s resilience is both heartfelt and inspiring. Inspiring because they continue to survive, to rebuild, to dream of a better future despite the odds. No one should have to be this resilient, which is heartbreaking. No one should have to endure this much suffering for the sake of existence.

But even as we feel relief now, we know that any ceasefire is temporary, by default. When the occupation is still at the center of this destruction, how can it possibly be anything else? As long as Gaza is blockaded, as long as Palestinians are denied their freedom and 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.

Ceasefires are not solutions, they are merely interruptions, pauses, a momentary reprieve in a cycle of violence that has defined Gaza’s reality for far too long. They are destined to fail without addressing the root causes of injustice, leaving Gaza stranded in a never-ending cycle of destruction and despair.

Beyond putting an end to the bombing, true peace requires more. It requires an end to the blockade, to the occupation, to the systemic oppression that has made life in Gaza unbearable.

Now that the bombs have stopped falling, the international community is unmovable. They must hold Israel accountable for its deeds. The reconstruction of Gaza is important, but it requires more urgent action to address the conflict’s root causes. It requires political courage, moral clarity, and an unwavering commitment to justice. Anything less constitutes a betrayal of Gaza’s citizens.

For my family, the road ahead is long. They will rebuild, as they always do. In the ruins, they will discover a way to give the place a new sense of home. However, this genocide’s scars will never be erased. My mother’s words – “Now we can grieve” – will echo in my mind forever, a reminder of the immense human cost of this conflict.

As I write this, I am overwhelmed by a mix of emotions: anger, sorrow, and a glimmer of hope. I’m angry at the world for allowing these atrocities to occur, I’m saddened by the lost lives and the destroyed homes, and I’m hopeful that my people will find peace one day. Until then, we grieve. We mourn the passing, the living, the past, the present, and the future.

Source: Aljazeera