After the Ceasefire

On January 27th, just over a week after the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas came into effect, the Israeli military opened the Netzarim corridor, the checkpoint bisecting the Gaza Strip. In the days that followed, more than half a million Palestinians undertook the long walk from the south to the north. Images of the trek travelled swiftly across the world: After 15 months of forced displacement—during which time Israel attempted to make northern Gaza permanently uninhabitable for Palestians, orchestrating a famine and enacting a brutal military assault—Palestinians were finally returning to their homes en masse. The current of people defiantly flowing north was, for many, a triumphant symbol of Palestinian steadfastness, celebrated across the Palestinian territories and globally as a hopeful portent for the right of return.

Yet, for those making the journey, this return has also been painful. Many have arrived at homes haunted by the absence of loved ones killed in Israel’s onslaught, in neighborhoods devastated by months of relentless airstrikes, amid landscapes of rubble under which innumerable bodies remain buried. Despite the aid surge that has accompanied the ceasefire, sustenance remains a challenge as provisions are not always effectively distributed, and shelter and healthcare are still difficult to access in the devastated region. Moreover, it is unclear whether the current agreement represents an end to Israel’s war, or only a temporary reprieve. US President Donald Trump said that he offers “no guarantees” that the ceasefire will hold, and has suggested plans to “clean out” the Gaza Strip of Palestinians, while Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu vowed to continue the war amid pressure from his far-right allies, both inside and outside his fragile coalition.

Jewish Currents spoke to three Palestinians from northern Gaza about what the ceasefire has meant for the prospect of rebuilding their lives. Ahmad Abu Yahia reflects on the pain of returning to a home he’d once shared with his brother Khalil (who spoke to Jewish Currents in the weeks after October 7th, 2023 and was killed by Israel soon after); Hamza Salha, who has written for Jewish Currents about his family’s original displacement from their hometown of Barbara, talks about going back to what remains of his home in Jabalia; and Aisha explains why, even as she misses her home in Gaza City, her family has decided to remain in the south for now. These dispatches have been edited for length and clarity.

As soon as the war broke out, my family was displaced from our home in Gaza City. Some of us, including my mother and brother Osama, sought refuge in Jabalia; others, like my brother Khalil, were sheltering in the southern part of Wadi Gaza. At this time, famine spread through the north, and the bombing in Jabalia intensified to such a degree that we feared moving, even in search of food. We would go days without eating—children crying from hunger, parents powerless before their starving children, and everyone consumed by the agony of lacking life’s bare necessities. Things only got worse from there. On October 29th, we received the news that Khalil had been martyred in an Israeli airstrike along with his wife and children. The grief we suffered then was overwhelming.

My mother, Osama, and I decided to flee south to Rafah. On November 20th, 2023, we reached the Netzarim checkpoint, passing directly in front of the Israeli army. It felt like doomsday: scorching sun, destruction everywhere, the cries of women and children in the air. The soldiers worsened the suffering by trapping us in very tight quarters, throwing sand at us, and firing indiscriminately to delay our passage. In Rafah, we were able to access food and water. Still, life was hard. We lived in tents that shielded us from neither the winter cold nor the summer heat. Rainwater leaked in, and children died from the freezing temperatures. When the Israeli military invaded the city in May, we were forced to flee again, this time to Khan Younis, which had been completely destroyed. There, we resumed our struggle to secure basic nourishment.

Finally, in early January, news of an imminent ceasefire began to spread. When the deal was announced, there was at once a surge of immense joy and the return of a deep pain. We who had lost loved ones felt anew the sharp sting of grief, and those of us whose houses were demolished felt that our lives had crumbled. Still, a glimmer of hope asserted itself—that despite all our suffering, we would rebuild our homes and find our lives again. I came back to Gaza City on the first day Israel allowed it. The journey wasn’t easy: It was a very long walk, the streets were destroyed, and the route was crowded. People were desperate to return home, even if their homes no longer existed.

When I arrived at my house, I saw a shocking scene: collapsed walls, shattered furniture, our entire past buried beneath the rubble. I searched the debris for anything that held family memories. Items that were once ordinary—books, children’s clothes—were suddenly treasures because we had lost everything else. It was so painful to return without my brother Khalil, but he lives in every corner of our house. I hold to my knowledge that he would have done anything to come back here. He believed that this home was more than a physical structure; it was also our identity. Choosing to rebuild our home is therefore an attempt to preserve what remains of the dreams Khalil and I shared: dreams of a home where the family could gather, where our children could grow up without fear, where we could live with dignity.

The ceasefire has given us some peace, but it has not restored what we lost. Food is still scarce, and medical aid is slow to arrive. Living under occupation and siege was never easy: We have long lived with the fear of what tomorrow may bring, with the terror that everything might collapse at any moment. Now, that has happened. Everything has changed—and the change is evident not only in the ruined streets, but also within us. Happiness has disappeared. The pain of loss accompanies us at all times.

I am cautious about what comes next. I do not trust that the ceasefire will last for long, I still have hope: in the resilience of our people; in our determination to live; in the children who, despite their suffering, still laugh and dream. I know that freedom will not come easily. We have already paid a heavy price and, unfortunately, the road may still be long. But our sacrifices will not be in vain. Freedom is inevitable, because it is a right, not a gift.

– Ahmad Abu Yahia, as told to Maya Rosen on February 2nd.

I am from Jabalia in northern Gaza, and for the first year of the war, we remained there, enduring Israel’s repeated sieges. There were times when we lived on bread alone, and when I thought about eating leaves from the trees of our neighbor’s garden. I saw my nieces and nephews become weak. I didn’t know what to say to their panicking parents. Then, in October 2024, Israel launched its third major attack on northern Gaza, besieging Jabalia, Beit Lahia, and Beit Hanoun. At that point we fled to western Gaza City, where we stayed until the current ceasefire.

As soon as the ceasefire was announced, we decided to return to our home. I made the hour-long walk from Gaza City to Jabalia with friends. It was beautiful. We filmed videos of destroyed Israeli military technology we encountered along the route, eagerly anticipated seeing our homes, and chatted about what we would do once our displacement had finally come to an end. But when we got north of the Al-Saftawi roundabout [a major junction in Gaza City], we saw that there was nothing left. Eventually, I reached my neighborhood, and I saw the skeleton of our house: The roof was still intact, but many of the walls had been destroyed. On the top floor, my father had built me my own apartment where I could live when I got married, but now there were no stairs to get there. I climbed up the exposed beams, and found Hebrew graffiti and some water bottles—indicating that the Israeli army had used our home, the last building standing in the area, as a military base. I felt disgusted.

My brothers and I started looking for an apartment to rent, but there are so few places available now in Gaza that they are all extremely expensive; they often cost around $1,000 a month, an unattainable price for most people. So we decided to stay in what is left of our house, in the cold, without running water or electricity. There is no bathroom, so I haven’t showered in a week; we’ve been using wet wipes. Even though we no longer hear the sounds of drones and gunfire, without exterior walls to shield us from the outdoors, the sounds of dogs barking and rats crawling keep us awake at night. What is left of the house is on the verge of collapse. It will need to be demolished and rebuilt. In the meantime, we are trying to coexist with the rubble. It’s hard to think about children, including my nieces and nephews, living like this. I praise God that I am not yet married, because it would only increase my worry.

Since the ceasefire came into effect, at least the bombs have stopped, and some aid, including food and medical supplies, is arriving. However, the nearest hospital—Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahia—has been destroyed. It will take a very long time to repair, and I don’t think the reconstruction will begin soon. So when my nieces and nephews are sick, where can they go to receive care? Also, even as prices have decreased and we’ve been able to access food that we haven’t had since the war started, it is not the same as before. This week, I ate chicken thighs for the first time since October 2023, and it hurt my stomach and my teeth. It made me think about the extent to which my health has been destroyed; it made me feel like I’ve lost the capacity for joy.

I know it’s likely that the war will continue after the first stage of the ceasefire. Just look at the ceasefire in Lebanon. That is why, even though Gaza is very precious to me, I do think about leaving. However, it would be so hard to start from nothing, and to leave my parents—who have devoted everything they have in this life to their eight children—as they are getting older. I hope that this ceasefire will hold, and that we will have peace. But this war has taught me that things do not unfold based on your hopes. It has taught me not to be too optimistic.

– Hamza Salha, as told to Jonathan Shamir on January 30th.

We are from Gaza City and were displaced to the south on October 10th, 2023, when Israel started bombing our neighborhood. I am currently living in a rented apartment in Khan Younis with three relatives. I’m alone in caring for them, and it has been very difficult. When we heard news of the ceasefire, I recalled everything we had to endure and I started crying. But I also felt relief. I’m still alive; there’s still hope.

Unfortunately, we cannot return home right now. The journey back north must be made on foot, and it takes about seven hours. My elderly mother and five-year-old niece wouldn’t be able to endure it. Besides, the conditions in the north are too difficult: There’s not enough food, water, or electricity; prices are exorbitant; and so much of the area has been reduced to rubble. There are many people still trapped under fallen buildings, and there are skeletons and decomposing bodies among the debris. It’s really gruesome. Even if a building is standing, it is dangerous to go inside because it’s likely damaged and could collapse at any moment. This is why most people who have returned to the north have set up tents. But my family and I are unwilling to live like that any longer because a few months ago, my young niece died due to the cold in the tents. Going back would also be very painful emotionally. Our home was destroyed in October 2023. When I learned of this, I thought I was dreaming—but I know that once I see it with my own eyes, I will internalize that this nightmare is my life. On the first day of the ceasefire, our neighbors returned to the north, and they sent me a video of our house. There’s nothing to be repaired; it has been completely demolished. As soon as I return to the rubble that was once our home, it will be real to me that I am homeless, and I, too, will collapse.