The markets after the October 2025 “ceasefire” was declared. Photo: Esraa Abo Qamar

When the assault on Gaza finally stopped, life didn’t return all at once. It came back slowly. At first, nothing felt different. We were still surrounded by rubble, smoke, and memories from the genocide. But then, little by little, changes began to appear. And even the smallest of them felt like miracles after two years of horror. 

The first thing that shifted was food. For months, we lived with a famine and absolute scarcity of everything in Al-Nuseirat camp. We lived for months without bread, counting every grain of rice and lentil, ignoring our own hunger. I still remember how children walked the streets with pale faces and skinny arms, their steps slow, their eyes tired.

So when the first trucks entered Gaza carrying actual food, it felt like a dream; after months of hunger, we would finally sleep with full stomachs. Gradually, other types of food appeared in the markets — bananas, peaches, cans of chocolate. Things that used to be normal suddenly felt like luxury items.

I will never forget the day children in my family saw bananas again. They screamed from excitement. They jumped, they clapped, they hugged each other as if they had just witnessed a miracle. One of them was still so young that he had not tasted bananas before. When he first saw one he was actually afraid! It was new and strange and he couldn’t accept it at first.

Even I felt strange the first time I tasted chocolate after so many months. Something as simple as a piece of chocolate made my soul happy. I kept thinking: How were we deprived of something so small? How could something this ordinary have become so unreachable?

Then came the moment none of us will ever forget: our first chicken. After months of eating whatever we could find, suddenly we had a whole chicken in front of us. The excitement in the house was unbelievable. We all gathered around it.

“Shall we make it musakhan?”

“No! Let’s make maqlouba!”

“No, fry it!”

It felt silly but beautiful. We were laughing, fighting over a chicken as if we had just won the lottery.

The author’s grandmother making bread. Photo: Esraa Abo Qamar

Bread returned, too. This was what relieved us most of all. For months, bakeries were shut down and we had to knead and bake everything ourselves. It was very exhausting to do this every day. Now when I was walking outside I saw elderly men and little children holding warm bags of bread. The smell of freshly baked bread spread in the streets. Mothers and sisters who had spent endless days baking finally breathed again. It felt like a piece of our old life had found its way back.

And then there was gas, the thing we had missed the most. Cooking over fire wasn’t just tiring; it was suffocating. The smoke filled our houses, our lungs, our eyes. Everything we owned turned black from soot. My eyes used to burn constantly. My chest felt heavy every day. And the taste of food, no matter what we cooked, was changed by the smoke. My whole day was wasted preparing our meals along with my mom. If we wanted to have a cup of coffee, we had to endure a long process that would give us a headache.

So when we finally received our first filled gas cylinder, we were extremely happy. My brother brought it to the house while holding it to the sky. Although it was heavy, he was so enthusiastic, oblivious to its weight. We stood around it like it was a treasure. My mother was smiling in a way I hadn’t seen in months.

The sound of the cooker when it was first turned on after months of abandonment brought us relief. The first thing I did was make myself a cup of coffee. I remember standing there, holding the cup with both hands, feeling like I had been reunited with a part of myself. I cannot study without coffee, and during the war, I didn’t enjoy a single cup. But that first cup of real coffee was so special.

Transportation changed, too. Before, there was barely any fuel, and we had to walk long distances through destroyed streets. Sometimes we rode uncomfortable trucks or overcrowded vehicles because that was all we could find. Now, slowly, cars began to move again. Even if the streets were destroyed, even if nothing looked like it did before, just being able to drive around and move is a miracle.

The banks reopened as well. At first, they had no cash. The crisis was unbearable — commission fees reached 50 percent. People would send money, and half of it would just vanish. Now the situation is still difficult, but at least the fees have dropped to around 10–12 percent. And with people finally opening new accounts, life started moving again. The stress of not having cash began to fade.

Shops reopened. Clothes returned to the markets. Prices were still high, but at least things were available. After months of empty shelves, just seeing colors, dresses, jackets, and children’s shoes made the streets feel alive again.

But the greatest change of all was safety, or at least something close to it. For two years, we slept with fear. We slept with bags packed beside our beds, emergency bags in case we had to flee at night. I still remember the night my brother shook me awake at 3 a.m., telling me we were in danger and needed to evacuate immediately. I left the house half-asleep, grabbing whatever I could. That kind of fear never leaves you.

Now, after so long, people are finally sleeping without the sound of bombing. People walk at night. Families sit outside. Sometimes I go for a walk with my parents at night — something I used to love but couldn’t do for years. Even the simple idea of eating ice cream at night felt impossible during the war. Now, it feels like a small dream coming true.

Life returning doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t erase the fear that Israel could restart the genocide at any moment. Even though the ceasefire has begun, we still hear the sound of bombardment from time to time. A lot of innocent people have been injured and killed through the occupation’s continuing violence. We know no moment is guaranteed. We know recovery won’t be easy.

But these small changes — bread, fruit, gas, safe sleep (even if it is sometimes violated) — really matter. They hold us together. They remind us that, even after horror, life insists on returning. And we hold onto that, tightly.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.