Tents providing shelter for people returning to the Al-Shuja’iyya neighborhood from the south. Photo: Nadera Mushtha

After long days of war and death, after blood running through the streets, after hunger and loss, after suffocating colors of black and gray, after dreams shattered and hopes slain, after endless pain and suffering, after voiceless cries and wondering when the end would come, finally it did on January 15, 2025, leaving us to wonder what our new life would be like after the death.

After living in tents and amidst rubble, after every evacuation and moment of solitude, after every nightmare of blood, torn flesh, and bombs exploding. After standing in endless lines for a scrap of bread and a sip of water, after missing life and asking, would we ever meet again?

On the night of January 15, I sat together with my family watching the ceasefire announcement, watching people who were waiting for the announcement in the streets, the hospitals, and the internet cafés. This was the announcement that we had waited 15 months for, months that were filled with blood.

After a few long hours, we knew that the ceasefire would begin on Sunday, four days after the announcement. That night was very hard for every Gazan. Everyone was afraid to die and lose their souls in the last four days of the war. I didn’t sleep that night because our neighborhood was under heavy bombardment. In fact, a house nearby was targeted and fire consumed the people inside.

We had waited day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute, until the day of sunrise finally came.

On the morning of January 19, the air was alive with voices. Windows and streets echoed with cries of joy. Children sang songs of freedom, though without experiencing it, and strangers embraced one another in the streets after the announcement of the ceasefire between Gaza and the Israeli Occupation. However, after 8:30 a.m., the bombardment continued in some areas of Gaza. While I was looking outside my window, I saw two young martyrs carried by two men. This moment broke my heart. I thought of their mother; how must she have felt, losing her sons in the last hour of the war?

Finally, we slept through the night without fear of loss. We walked the streets in peace, unshaken by the roar of bombs and airstrikes. We returned to our lives under sunny skies. We reunited with our families and friends — those separated from us, those in the south. We could simply be happy again. And this was our dream. Our fantasy and our hope.

The next night when I went to bed, I felt that there was something wrong because the sound of the bombs was finally gone. I felt some peace after the hell of the war. But my night was filled with the nightmares of blood, torn flesh, and bones.

The next day, I went to my grandparents’ home in the Al-Shuja’iyya neighborhood and I was shocked when I saw the streets. They were gray. We were walking above the rubble of a lot of homes. Some homes had melted without becoming rubble.

Many families were returning to their homes. They were people who had been displaced because it wasn’t a safe area to live during the war. Though it was unsafe, many families stayed where they were because nothing was safe in all of Gaza.

On the first day of the ceasefire, my grandparents’ family returned to their home, like many families who returned to Jabalia, Al-Zatton, Bait Lahia, Beit Hanoon, and Al-Shuja’iyya. They returned despite not having homes but instead rubble that covers everything.

The hardest thing that I have ever seen was when I was walking with my mother and siblings. That is when I saw some men above the rubble, wearing masks over their faces, trying to find what remained of the bodies of their martyrs. And there was a woman with a pale face waiting to see the martyrs after a long time. She was standing in a corner filled with dust and rubble.

People were cleaning their homes from a huge amount of the gray and black stones, as a result of the heavy bombardment that was in the east of Gaza. They threw the rubble from the top of the apartment building. It was like a gray cascade falling from the top to the bottom.

When I arrived at my grandparents’ home, I was shocked. I wondered, where is the green of the trees? Where are the olives and the orange trees? Where are the homes? Where are the people? Where is the way that we knew? Where is the city? Where am I? Everything was like a shadow of the ghosts, and the place turned into the place of the ghosts, too.

People believe that living in a tent above the rubble of their homes is still a home. But who will bring back the memories of the homes? Who will bring back the souls? Who will bring back the life that we were living before the war?