A mural on a Gaza street says, “There is hope.” Photo: Lamar Al-Huwaiti

Once upon a time, there was a Greek myth about a box. Inside this box, all the evils we now know were sealed: war, famine, disease, and despair. Then came a girl named Pandora, who out of curiosity opened the box and unleashed every form of suffering into the world. She tried desperately to close it again but she failed. The box was finally shut after it had been nearly emptied. Only one thing remained inside after the lid slammed shut: hope.

People have long debated what that means. To some, it’s a final blessing; to others, a cruel riddle. But in Gaza, this is not a myth—it is a daily reality. Here, hope is a double-edged sword. It keeps the hearts of the sick beating, consoles the mother of a missing son, and gives strength to students struggling under siege. It is what a father uses to feed his hungry children and reassure his anxious wife.

However, since the first missile of the war was fired, this hope has been exploited by Zionist media and leaders who use talk of a “truce” as a tool of sedation—offering fleeting promises to appease mediators, calm hollow international outrage, and toy with broken hearts—numbing people just enough to endure the next catastrophe. These illusions are not meant to heal, but to weaken the spirit.

The same script always plays out. There is destruction. There is death. And then, there is talk. Negotiations. Ceasefires. “Breakthroughs.”

These words flutter across television screens like butterflies—delicate and brief to those who follow news of Gaza. Meanwhile, Israel uses these “quiet” days as an opportunity to issue the highest number of eviction orders and commit the most horrific massacres—hidden behind the smokescreen of truce headlines. The media’s focus on the possibility of peace becomes, ironically, a cover for war crimes. It’s a carrot dangled before a dying horse—an illusion of safety.

In the faces of Gazans, the pattern is carved deep. For a moment, brows rise, eyes shine with hope at the mention of a ceasefire.

Maybe, this time, it will be different.

Maybe, this time, we will be allowed to live—truly live—or at least die with dignity, instead of continuing this half-life we are forced to endure.

But that moment never lasts. It fades as negotiations collapse and reality settles in.

No, not this time. Not yet. There’s still more suffering to live through.

The evils may have flown out of Pandora’s box centuries ago, but here in Gaza we are still living inside that box. The truth is simple: The evils surround us in the form of a criminal Israeli occupation.

But this cycle of suffering isn’t confined to war headlines. Hope in Gaza is also measured in meters of open road. It breathes through the Rafah crossing, through Erez, and Kerem Shalom—through gates that are more than just metal and concrete. These are veins in Gaza’s crushed body. When they open, blood flows: a tiny amount of food enters—just enough to feed no one, but enough to feed Israeli officials’ pride as they brag about their “humanity” for allowing in what should be a basic human right. But the truth is—this is unreal hope.

Since May 6, 2024, with rare exceptions, none of these crossings have opened for travelers. They open only as gates to a controlled cage—a monstrous farm where humans are caged, not fed. Of thousands of students with hopes of study abroad, a handful get out; of thousands of ill and injured children, a scarce few get a second chance. Passage is cruelly limited. Virtually no one travels toward freedom.

In these seconds and minutes, hardworking students with scholarships watch their dreams disintegrate as they count down the seconds until the crossing opens. Some universities have already withdrawn their offers, unable to wait longer. Other students watch deadlines approach with the speed of vanishing dreams and the slowness of war’s dragging days—kept alive by, yet dying slowly, because of hope.

Then there are the families watching their loved ones slip away: sons and daughters dying for lack of medical equipment. A father kneels beside his daughter’s bed, her small chest rising and falling with effort. His eyes, flooded with tears, silently tell her: You will find peace in the next world. While he, still trapped here, will endure the hell of watching her go—powerless to stop it. All he can do is watch.

They wait. They wait for officials to stamp papers, for journalists to confirm news, for airstrikes to stop, for something—anything—to change in a hypocritical, despicable world that, unable to kill them quickly, grants them the right to live but denies them a life worth living. It chooses instead to kill them slowly and painfully, using the same weapon that keeps them alive: hope. A world too ashamed to confront its own guilt hides behind moments of false peace, behind the headlines of misleading truces, and behind the unbearable weight of truth—choosing to delay necessary battles and long-overdue rights. But that doesn’t negate their inevitability.

Here, Pandora’s Box is not a myth. It is a bitter reality, where people are left suspended in limbo, neither alive in the full sense of the word, nor dead enough to be mourned.