On Friday, the resistance declared its acceptance of a ceasefire agreement in Gaza, sparking celebrations among some residents.
Each time a ceasefire is proposed here, a fleeting sense of hope flickers in the distance. Yet, many have grown weary of hope, having endured repeated cycles of anticipation followed by crushing disappointment. We have become all too familiar with the pattern of rising expectations only to be met with harsh realities that force us to start anew. Despite this, I hold onto the belief that this time might be different-that the commitment to end the violence is genuine.
For my family, hope remains our sole possession.
We have been stripped of our home, our means of livelihood, our aspirations, and our sense of safety. My husband lost his employment, my ambitions have been shattered, and most heartbreakingly, my son’s childhood has been stolen-his once secure and joyful world has vanished.
Survival has become a daily struggle. Just last month, I was compelled to part with my last precious possession-my engagement ring-to provide food for my child.
After enduring months of scarcity, Gaza’s markets began to replenish in August, offering items we hadn’t seen in a long time: cheese, cooking oil, and some fruits. Yet, this return of goods was a cruel reminder of our poverty, as most of us could not afford these luxuries.
I tried to shield my son from seeing the cheese, but one day, while walking through the market with his father and me, he stopped in front of a stall and asked for some. Hoping to satisfy his hunger, I gave him a shekel to buy a falafel sandwich. “I don’t want the falafel-it upsets my stomach,” he said quietly. “I want the delicious cheese.” My heart shattered at that moment.
I wished those foods had never arrived because we had exhausted all our savings on overpriced, poor-quality staples just to survive in the preceding months.
That evening, my husband came home with his head bowed, bitterly recounting the soaring prices. I told him I was thinking of selling my engagement ring. He opposed the idea and insisted on going to one of the so-called “aid distribution” centers, which he grimly referred to as “death traps.”
I pleaded with him not to go, knowing many who ventured there had been killed. Yet, with sorrow in his eyes, he said, “Our son hasn’t eaten in days. How can I stay away?”
Only two weeks earlier, his brother was fatally shot by Israeli forces while attempting to bring flour to his family of five.
The next morning, I visited the gold dealers. The price they offered for my ring was unfairly low-much less than before the conflict-but I had no alternative.
I sold the ring for just enough money to purchase 5 kilograms of flour, 1 liter of olive oil, 500 grams of thyme, 1 kilogram of tahini, two cans of cheese, 1 kilogram of sugar, and a can of tomato sauce.
When I returned home, it felt like a small celebration. We gathered around a table with cheese, sweet tea, fresh bread, and thyme-luxuries we had longed for over many months. Amidst the pain, there was a fleeting moment of joy. Though my hand was now bare, the smile on my son’s face as he ate quickly erased my regret.
That food lasted about a week.
Hunger soon returned, and we reverted to one meal a day-usually just bread with tea or thyme.
Over the past two years, we have been forced to sell not only our valuables but also fragments of our memories and dreams. We have fled our home in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of Gaza City multiple times. Earlier this month, we escaped once again and now live in a tent in Khan Younis. My heart aches for all that I have left behind.
My deepest wish is for this conflict to end so I can wake up each day knowing my son is safe and his future is not shrouded in uncertainty. I dream of providing him with regular, nourishing meals as I once did before the war, free from worries about food shortages, prices, or money. I envision returning to our home, a place of comfort and security, and seeing schools reopen so my husband and I can resume our roles as educators.
If a ceasefire is truly established, the first thing I will do is hold my son close and whisper, “The fear is over, my love,” before we return to whatever remains of our home.
The perspectives shared here are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the editorial views of this website.
