Staff in Gaza: What a ceasefire would mean to me

"I'm willing to pay any price just to hug my child"

To be honest, a ceasefire has become a dream for us. It means a lot of things. It means that I could see my son, who I haven't seen for seven months. He left Gaza for Egypt when he was 14 months old. Everything in his life changed during this period. I missed out on him growing up, from his first steps to the first words he spoke, his choices, his games—so many things in his life. For me, it has become a dream to see my son with my wife during this period. My wife has a big burden as she has she played the role of a mother and a father at the same time, because she wanted to make up for my absence in her life during this period.  

My biggest nightmare is, will my son forget me as his father? I talk about this with my wife. She reminds him of me and we talk to each other. We make video calls and try to show him that life is normal even though life is far from normal.  

The things that we are losing now are irreplaceable. I know that every step or every change in my son's life during this period is irreplaceable. These things are gone forever and will not happen again. They happen once in life. Because of the war, I missed out on all the monumental things I was deprived of, like seeing my family regularly—my father, my mother, and my brothers, who are currently living in one area.

For us, a ceasefire has become a dream.

"I hope to be reunited with my fiancé"

A ceasefire is a dream for me. It means a lot to me but I feel it is becoming more impossible.  

The most important thing [would be] feeling security and stability. Because every day, especially in our job as doctors, we have to go out for long periods of time when we leave home, and we don't know if we will return home or not. Even during long, busy shifts, I keep up with the news. You fear something might happen near your family when you're not there and regret not being there to help.  

I always have this feeling of fear. The sense of stability fades with new evacuation orders every day; we have to collect all our stuff after settling in a certain place, we have to move to another place. Repeated displacement ... nearly 100 times. So we have lost that feeling of stability. Maybe this is the most important thing we all need.  

But a ceasefire will not bring back the people we have lost.

Three months before the war I got engaged and I was preparing for the wedding. I was happy with all the details of preparing the wedding. Of course, after October 7, I won't be able to do what I dreamed of. But at least I hope to be reunited with my fiancé, because he stayed in the north, and I came to the south. Maybe the thing I wish for most is to see him again.  

"I wish for the war to stop so we can live a normal life again."

A ceasefire has been our long-awaited hope for more than a year. It would mean that I can sleep without thinking that the house might collapse on me or that I might wake up and find myself buried under rubble. A ceasefire would mean I can go to work feeling relaxed and reassured that my children are safe, that I can walk in the street without fear ... A ceasefire is what we’ve been waiting for over a year. A ceasefire would mean that we can live a peaceful life ... [it would mean] returning to the life we lived before October 7. 

I long to go back to my home and live a normal life, to send my children to school in the morning, to sit on the balcony, drink coffee, and listen to Fairouz. To live the life we had before October 7. I miss it so much—family gatherings, seeing my mother, whom I haven’t seen for over a year.  

"I just want the good days to return"

A ceasefire means a lot to me. First of all, my wife and children are in Gaza [City]. I haven’t seen them in 11 months. I suffer daily because I haven't seen them and because of the dangerous situation in Gaza. There’s bombing day after day, night after night. I can’t sleep because of the continuous bombing.  

I wonder [about my family], how are they doing? Was the house bombed or not? It’s a very stressful situation.

My situation has also become difficult. Psychologically, I’m exhausted. I haven’t seen [my family], and I’m here in the south. The situation is extremely difficult because every day there’s displacement. And every day, there are evacuations from one area to another ... sometimes there's no network. You go two or three days without communication and you’re constantly worried about [family]. For me, there is also suffering because every day there’s displacement from one area to another.  

"I want to die in one piece"

A ceasefire means that I am going back to my house that was bombed. It took 15 years to build it, and I had been working on it [before] it was destroyed. In a moment, I lost my all of my house. It is a pile of stones now.  

I want to go back to see my daughter in the north. She is sick from the war and has suffered greatly. She was in great need of me but I couldn’t be with her. I want to see my brother's grave. He was killed during the war and my other siblings, my family, and relatives. I want to see my country, family, people, I want to see what happened to the north of Gaza. What more can I say?  

I miss my daughter, a piece of my heart. I am deprived of seeing her. I see her in video calls, but the connection is difficult. I wish I could see her, check on her, and see what condition she is in. The house next to my daughter's was bombed. She was in the bathroom and screamed, which caused her psychological trauma. She is in a better condition now, but remembering the past worsens her state.

"I remember every corner of my house"

I had a house, a family. I remember every corner of my house—the living room, the bedroom, the garden. It was my dream to have this house. I was working with my wife to build and to have it like this. Sitting, chatting, laughing, smiling, joking. We could buy whatever we wanted—sweets for the kids, chocolates, vegetables, fruits. We were making plans. We had dreams. Our kids were growing up before our eyes. We were planning for their future.  

All of this changed suddenly, on the 7th of October. Drinkable water was not available, food was not available. We went to Rafah, on the coastal side, in what is called the humanitarian zone—[but] it is not a humanitarian zone. It was hell because strikes didn't stop.  

How can I protect my family on a daily basis? I managed to take my family out of Gaza to go to Cairo. Now I'm alone since February. I have moved maybe five times from my place in Rafah. I need to evacuate. I struggle to go to the toilet, the shared toilet, [because it is] busy and I have to wait. I'm far from my family. I feel lonely, mentally tired. I need to reunite with my wife, my daughter, my two boys.