Last Sunday, I stepped out of my family’s tent in az-Zawayda, in the central Gaza Strip and headed to the nearby Twix Cafe, a coworking space for freelancers and students. Ten days had passed since the “ceasefire” was announced and I thought it must finally be safe for me to go out. Venturing out was supposed to be a step towards reclaiming a small part of my old life.
My brother and I were almost at the cafe when we heard a very familiar sound – the thunder of an explosion. An Israeli drone had hit the entrance of Twix Cafe.
I froze. I thought, this is it – it’s my turn. I won’t survive this war.
Three people were killed and several others were injured. Had my brother and I left my family’s tent a few minutes earlier, we, too, may have been among the casualties.
As the news spread, my family went into panic, calling us over and over again. The signal was weak, and their attempts to reach us were failing. We were able to comfort our mum only when we got back to the tent.
I asked myself, what kind of “ceasefire” is this? I felt more anger than fear.
When the ceasefire agreement came into effect and we were told by foreign leaders that the war was over, many of us dared to hope. We thought the explosions would finally stop, that we could begin to rebuild our shattered lives without fear.
But there is no such hope under Israeli occupation. The violence never truly ends. That day, when the Israeli army bombed Twix Cafe, it also bombed dozens of other places throughout the Gaza Strip, killing at least 45 people and injuring many more.
It was the single deadliest day since the ceasefire took effect. No day has passed without casualties; Israel continues to kill every day. By now, more than 100 Palestinians have been murdered since the so-called ceasefire was announced.
Among them were 11 members of the Abu Shaaban family. The massacre happened on October 18, the day before the mass bombing. The Abu Shaabans were trying to return to their home in the Zeitoun neighbourhood of Gaza City, riding in one vehicle. An Israeli bomb ended the lives of four adults: Sufian, Samar, Ihab and Randa; and seven children: Karam, aged 10, Anas, eight, Nesma, 12, Nasser, 13, Jumana, 10, Ibrahim, six, and Mohammed, five.
This is what Israel calls a “ceasefire”.
On Sunday, panic and insecurity spread throughout the Strip as the mass bombardment started. As explosions were going off, people rushed to the markets to secure as much food as they could afford to prepare for the war and starvation resuming.
It was heartbreaking to see how, amid the bombs, people’s minds automatically focused on food. It seems we have lost forever the feeling of security, of knowing that tomorrow we will have food on the table.
And yes, we are still forced to buy our food because Israel is not only violating the “ceasefire” by bombing us, but also withholding the aid it signed onto allowing. At least 600 trucks of aid were supposed to enter Gaza per day. According to the Gaza Media Office, just 986 aid trucks have entered Gaza since the ceasefire went into effect on October 11 – just 15 percent of what was promised. The World Food Programme (WFP) counted just 530 of its trucks being allowed in. UNRWA has 6,000 waiting to enter; none has been allowed.
Yesterday, the WFP spokesperson said no large aid convoys have entered Gaza City; Israel still does not give the agency the permission to use Salah al-Din Street. The Israeli policy of starving Gaza’s north is still in effect.
The Rafah border crossing with Egypt – our only outlet to the rest of the world – remains closed. We don’t know when it will open again; when the thousands of injured people will be allowed to cross for urgent medical treatment; when students will be able to leave to continue their education; when families, torn apart by the war, will be reunited; when those who love Gaza – those who have waited so long to come home – will finally be able to return.
It is by now clear that Israel is treating this “ceasefire” like a switch – turning it on and off as it pleases. On Sunday, we were back to massive bombardment, on Monday, it was “ceasefire” again. As if nothing had happened, as though 45 people hadn’t been massacred, as if no homes had been destroyed and no families shattered. It is devastating to see our lives treated as if they do not matter. It is soul-crushing to know that Israel can resume mass murder whenever it wants, without warning, without an excuse.
This ceasefire is nothing more than a pause in what we now believe is an endless war – a moment of silence that can end at any moment. We will remain at the mercy of a murderous occupier until the world finally recognises our right to live and takes real action to secure it. Until then, we will remain numbers in headlines about Israel’s endless killing spree.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
