“An Abrupt Plunge Into Hell”: Gaza After the Ceasefire

It feels as though time has folded back on itself. The bombing on Gaza resumed in the darkness of the night of March 18, and has continued for weeks since. It feels like a flashback — like the first day of October 7, when the morning broke with the same shock, the same uncertainty.

On one level, we expected the war to resume. In early March, the beginning of Ramadan, the first phase of the ceasefire deal ended. By March 2, Israel had closed the border crossings into Gaza, and aid — food — stopped entering.

In the middle of March, Israel resumed killing people with drones across Gaza. One attack killed nine Palestinians: four journalists, the others aid workers.

On March 18, after two months of ceasefire, the deal was shattered. At 2 a.m, I heard the deafening sounds of heavy airstrikes and violent explosions. Thunderous booms shattered our night, rattling windows in our apartment.

But these airstrikes evoked a strange new type of fear, coming out of a supposed ceasefire. For the first time, Israeli warplanes struck across the entire Gaza Strip at the same time. They targeted tents, mosques, schools, hospitals, and houses. After the airstrikes began, I smelled a suffocating, poisonous gas seeping into our new apartment in Gaza City. A ceasefire broken, and Israel killing sleeping civilians in the night.

From Ceasefire Back to Genocide

The shift from ceasefire back to genocide feels like an abrupt plunge into hell. 

I have lived through multiple cycles of escalation. The transition from a temporary peace to renewed attack is the return of feeling unsafe and the trauma I never healed from. It’s the return to the panic of hearing a moving car and thinking it’s a bomb dropped. It’s the return to the sharp screech of ambulances rushing by, carrying the injured and martyrs, and the thuds of artillery fire, the echo of explosions, airstrikes, and the horror of fire belts — the Israeli tactic of bombing the same area again and again — that tear through our days. It’s the return to seeing the bodies, skulls, and remnants covered with blood and dust. It’s the return to the sounds of the screams, the wails, the cries that are still rooted in our minds, refusing to leave us. It’s the return to the news of loss, the lengthy list of martyrs killed by Israel, the funeral prayers, the mourning and sorrow, and the farewell. It’s the return to the atrocities and massacres committed by Israel.

This week, the Israeli occupation committed massacres in the Shujaiya neighborhood, erasing an entire area and killing many innocent people.

The internal situation has become even more precarious and unbearable. 

Airstrikes come at random, especially at night while we sleep. The Israeli drones and warplanes hover overhead ceaselessly.

The cost of food, medicine, gas, and fuel has skyrocketed, placing an even greater burden on Gazans who are already living in dire conditions. 

The bag of flour that cost 10 shekels, around three U.S. dollars, as recently as six months ago, now can only be found for 500 shekels, close to $130. One liter of gas now costs 300 shekels, or nearly $80. Before the war, a large family could live on $600 a month, but now have to find $2,000 just to survive, scraped together from savings and money stashed away — or in many cases, forced to starve.

The blockade and closure of the Gaza border crossings have exacerbated the suffering, making it nearly impossible for aid to reach us. Previously, essential supplies like flour, hygiene kits, vegetables, fruit, canned food, and other basic ingredients would come in through these crossings, providing vital support amid the genocide and before the ceasefire. Now, with the border closed, everything has stopped. My family is baking bread from the last of the flour we received as aid. Water has become scarce, and we are forced to rely on limited local sources, making it difficult to sustain even the most basic necessities of life.

It feels like war and tragic stories have become part of our DNA. I hate farewells, and I hate seeing the white coffins covering my beloved martyrs’ bodies. Here, the air seems thick and heavy, and all around me is rubble and black destruction. 

Every Second Counts

The death toll keeps rising. More than 1,400 people have been killed in Israeli attacks across Gaza since March 18, and more than 3,000 people severely injured. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has said that the attacks will intensify with time. 

In Gaza, everything changes in an instant: Gazans get killed or injured in an instant, buildings get demolished in an instant, prices get higher in an instant, and the border crossings get closed in an instant. I’ve started expecting to be killed at any moment, separated from death by only a fraction of a second.

Our pain of loss and suffering hasn’t satisfied Israel and its goals. Maybe seeing us moving forward despite the destruction evoked their anger. Why does Israel keep killing children and women? Why does Israel keep killing Palestinians, whether individually or collectively, asleep or awake, alive or dead?

My aunt told me, “After launching an airstrike against a neighboring building next to my building, we found dismembered remnants and flesh of a human body scattered in the staircase of my building.” 

My mom’s relative was in the Baptist hospital last week, and she told us, “There were a lot of children injured as a result of yesterday’s massacre. All these children had their limbs amputated without any painkillers because it was not available.” 

We are being cut into pieces. 

“Don’t Stop Talking About Gaza”

Since the beginning of the war in October, Israel has kept deliberately targeting journalists, killing at least 220 journalists for only documenting, reporting, and covering the truth on the ground. Israel killed Samer Abu Daqqa, Hamza al-Dahdouh, and Roshdi Sarraj and separated them from their families. Israel killed Ismail al-Ghoul, beheaded him, and separated him from his wife and his lovely daughter. Israel targeted Fadi Alwhidi, paralyzing his legs. 

On March 24, two more Palestinian journalists, Hossam Shabat and Mohammed Mansour, were killed in Gaza by the criminal Israeli occupation only for doing their mission in journalism and for telling the truth. There was only one hour between their deaths. 

Days ago, an Israeli airstrike targeted tents sheltering journalists in front of Nasser Hospital in Gaza. The journalist Ahmad Mansour was martyred after being burned alive and many other journalists such Abdullah al-Attar and Hassan Aslih were injured severely.

Unfortunately, there is no international protection for the journalists in Gaza. Their helmets and press vests don’t prevent Israel from killing them. These brave journalists, especially Anas al-Sharif and Hind Khoudary, inspire me to write. 

The killing of Hossam Shabat, Ismail al-Ghoul, and Roshdi Sarraj pushes me forward to follow their footsteps. Hossam Shabat’s last message was, “Don’t stop talking about Gaza. Don’t let the world look away. Keep fighting. Keep telling stories until Palestine is free.” So I will keep fighting until the end despite the challenges to make sure that those journalists’ sacrifices were not in vain.

We Will Never Leave

We are living in a state of panic and anticipation of what will happen. We feel helpless and powerless, and don’t know how to provide basic necessities for our families and afford the essentials. 

What terrifies the people of Gaza the most is being displaced from the north to the south again, with the ground invasions threatening us all. 

While our existence annoys Israel, we declare we will remain in Gaza in our own homes, come what may. We completely dismiss Donald Trump’s proposal to expel us from our homes in all its forms. We know the deception of the Israeli occupation, as it previously ordered us to head south to the so-called “safe zone,” then bombed us. My connection to Gaza deepens even more through this genocide.

The war, the death, the destruction — it never really leaves us. It lingers, seeping into our lives like the dust from the airstrikes, covering every moment, every breath, every hope we have left. Life was never normal in Gaza, but I miss what I thought was a “normal” life.

I have already survived the previous wars, but I can’t be sure I’ll survive this time. Why does it feel like every time we try to move forward, the occupation rips us back? Why, when the colors of our lives begin to emerge, do they fade so quickly into shades of pale and black? When will we have an end to our struggle?