Like most survivors in Gaza, I’ve been living with a strange, hard-to-name feeling since the ceasefire was declared, something between disbelief and disorientation. It’s as if we’re all stuck in a quiet limbo, asking ourselves: What Next? We wait for something unknown, uncertain. On one hand, we are overwhelmed by the sheer scale of what has happened. On the other, we are unable to trust that it has truly ended. There’s a lingering fog, chronic doubt, fading memories of what normal once felt like, scattered focus, and a daily weight of depression that clings to every soul still breathing on this land.
Yes, we keep working. Yes, we endure. Yes, we try to live. But the dominant feeling is not survival. It’s the haunting sense that survival hasn’t yet come. There are no clear answers to the questions we carry in our bones: Will the loved ones we lost ever return? Will our homes ever be rebuilt? Will Gaza ever be ours again?
They are short questions, but they shape the entire landscape of our thoughts, about life and about survival.
We don’t know if we’ve truly survived. But we do know that since the ceasefire was announced, we have not been the same.