The announcement of a ceasefire agreement in Gaza undoubtedly marks a critical moment in the ongoing conflict. For those of us who have witnessed, experienced, and then watched, mourned, and advocated from afar, this pause in hostilities provides an opportunity to reflect on the past 15 months, and the heavy price paid for this fleeting calm.
As a Palestinian, receiving this news feels like standing in the eye of a storm, in a moment of ghostly calm surrounded by chaos and destruction. For me, at least it marks the end to the bloodshed, but the fact is, the ones we lost will never return, and these scars will never heal. How would a ceasefire ever change that fact?
Ceasefires are often hailed as victories for diplomacy, but to me, they are more like pauses in a constant nightmare. This latest agreement is a reminder that, for the people of Gaza, survival often hinges on the fragility of politics. Children, mothers, and fathers carry the unbearable weight of uncertainty. I find myself asking: Is this truly a step towards peace, or just another chapter in a story of delayed justice and extended suffering?
The ceasefire’s terms, reached under immense international pressure, include a halt to air strikes and rocket fire, along with provisions to allow humanitarian aid into Gaza. These measures are desperately needed. But their necessity is also an accusation of the international community’s failure to act sooner to prevent the crises that make such measures critical. Aid is vital, but it cannot heal the wounds of oppression, wide open and bleeding. Temporary peace cannot replace the right to live freely and to dream beyond survival.
The International Court of Justice (ICJ), the International Criminal Court (ICC), and their arrest warrants, which were meant to address crimes committed against our people, are overshadowed by political inaction. Will the world pursue these mechanisms when the war ends, or will justice be buried under a mountain of bureaucracy and indifference? The failure to enforce accountability before, during, and after the conflict reveals how deeply flawed these institutions are.
Aid is vital, but it cannot heal the wounds of oppression. Temporary peace cannot replace the right to live freely and to dream beyond survival. This prompts another crucial question: Will Palestinians ever get their rights to have full control over their political and diplomatic path to justice, or will they always be eliminated from the political stage and portrayed to fit in the victim’s role? While international recognition of our plight is critical, we must chart a path towards independence from unreliable global powers.
For Palestinians, especially those in Gaza, the siege is its own kind of war. It is violence without bombs, but no less devastating. The blockade, now in its 17th year, has eroded the fabric of life. It has robbed families of opportunities, denied them access to basic rights, and imposed a daily struggle that defies the bounds of human endurance. How do we rebuild a life in such conditions, knowing that this ceasefire might crumble as quickly as it came? How do we dream of a future when the present feels like an everlasting state of mourning?
During the war, decisions such as halting the funding of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) exacerbated the humanitarian crisis. The inability of the international community, including entities as disparate as the UN, the G8, or BRICS, to intervene in time to restore such vital lifelines for Palestinians further highlights its failure to protect civilian life and uphold humanitarian law. What happens when the safety nets, already too fragile, are arbitrarily stripped away without global resistance powerful enough to alleviate the crisis?
The international community, particularly Western powers, must confront their role in preserving this cycle. Statements of support for ceasefires ring hollow when they are not accompanied by meaningful action, accountability, protection for civilians, and a real commitment to addressing the root causes of this conflict. The imbalance of power, the brutal reality of occupation, the suffocating blockade – these are not peripheral issues. They are the core of the problem.
How can we trust the same US administration – led for now by Biden and soon Trump – that pressured for this ceasefire when its actions have consistently undermined peace in the region? Decisions by the first administration of President-elect Donald Trump to relocate the US embassy to Jerusalem and recognise the Golan Heights as part of Israel are stark reminders of an agenda that prioritises power over justice. Moreover, the fear remains that this administration will shift its focus to the West Bank, transferring the same policies of violence and displacement there. Such decisions show that any pause in violence does not equate to a shift in policy or priorities.
As I process this moment, I feel both a flicker of hope and a tide of anger. Hope that this pause might save lives, and anger that it has taken so much suffering to reach even this fragile point. The cameras will turn away soon, the world’s attention will shift, but for us, this is not an end. Ceasefires are not peace. They are moments of quiet in an unending storm. Until justice is realised, until dignity and equality are more than distant dreams, the cycle will continue.
This is not to diminish the significance of the ceasefire for those whose lives hang in the balance every day. For many, it means the difference between life and death. But as a Palestinian, I cannot ignore the deeper truth: peace is not just the absence of war. It is the presence of justice. It is the freedom to live without fear, to rebuild without the certainty of destruction, to dream without limits. Anything less is not peace. It is survival. And survival is not enough for people who deserve so much more.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
