On Friday, the resistance announced it was accepting a ceasefire plan in Gaza. Some people celebrated in the streets.
Whenever a ceasefire proposal is brought up in Gaza, we briefly feel as though a glimmer of hope is glancing at us from a distance. Many no longer have much hope because we are accustomed to elevating our hopes, waiting for the end, and then being struck with a harsh reality that forces us to start over. How often have we experienced this painful cycle of optimism and letdown? I still hope, though, that this time will be different and that they are sincere about putting a stop to this conflict.
In my family, we do not have much left other than hope.
We lost our home, livelihood, dreams, and sense of security. My husband lost his job, I lost my ambitions, and worst of all, my son lost his childhood; he has lost his little world, where he used to feel safe and happy.
We truly have nothing left for subsistence. Just last month, I was forced to sell my last valuable – my engagement ring – to feed my child.
Following months of famine, in August, Gaza’s markets started filling up with goods again, including foods we hadn’t seen for months: cheese, oil, and some fruit. But seeing these goods again being available was a cruel experience, as most of us could not afford to buy them.
I tried to keep my son away from seeing the cheese, but I failed. He saw it in the market one day while walking with me and his father. He stopped in front of the stall, asking for some. Later, I gave him one shekel to buy a falafel sandwich, hoping that would satisfy his hunger. “I don’t want the falafel that hurts my stomach,” he said sadly. “The tasty cheese is what I want.” My heart broke in that moment.
I wished all those food items had never come into the Strip at all. We had spent all our savings on the overpriced, low-quality food that was available in the previous months just to stay alive.
That evening, my husband returned home with his head bowed down; he spoke bitterly about the prices that had skyrocketed. I told him I was considering selling my engagement ring. My husband strongly objected and planned to go to one of those “aid distribution” sites or “death traps”, as he called them.
I begged him not to go, since so many who went there were killed. But he looked at me with sorrow in his eyes and said: “Our son hasn’t eaten in days. How can I not go?”
Just two weeks earlier, his brother had been shot dead by Israeli forces while trying to bring flour for his family of five.
The following morning, I visited the gold merchants. The price they offered for my ring was unfair — much lower than before the war — but I had no choice.
I sold my ring for just enough money to buy 5kg of flour, 1 litre of olive oil, 500gm of thyme, 1kg of tahini, two cans of cheese, 1kg of sugar, and one can of tomato sauce.
When I got home, it was as if Eid had just arrived. We sat down around a table with cheese, sweetened tea, fresh bread, and thyme that we had dreamed of for months. In a sea of pain, there was a brief moment of happiness. I felt a stab in my heart when I looked at my hand, now empty of the ring, but my child’s smile while eating quickly put an end to that regret.
The food lasted us about a week.
Then hunger came back to haunt us. We went back to a meal a day that consisted of a piece of bread and tea or thyme.
Over the past two years, we’ve been forced to sell our dreams, piece by piece, not just gold, but memories too. We have had to flee our home in the Sheikh Radwan neighbourhood in Gaza City several times. Earlier this month, we fled again, and we now find ourselves in a tent in Khan Younis. My heart is heavy with sorrow as I abandoned everything I loved.
All I can hope for right now is that this conflict will end so that I can wake up in the morning knowing that my son is secure and that his future is not unclear. I often dream of being able to serve him regular, nutritious meals, just like I did before the war, without having to worry about a shortage of food, the cost of food, or a lack of money. I picture going back to my house, where I used to feel secure and comfortable, and I picture the schools reopening so that my spouse and I may resume our regular lives as teachers.
If a ceasefire takes hold, the first thing I would do is to embrace my son and tell him, “The fear is over, my love”, before heading back to whatever is left of our home.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
