Since the conflict between Israel and Hamas erupted in October 2023, Gaza has faced an unimaginable tragedy, losing approximately 6% of its over 2 million inhabitants. About 100,000 Palestinians have fled, and sadly, more than 55,000 are feared dead. The turmoil shattered the lives of nearly 90% of Gaza’s residents, displacing them multiple times, while almost 69% of the region’s buildings have been damaged or reduced to ruins.
In terms of scale, this recent stretch marks one of the most devastating and deadly periods in modern history, uniquely marked by its live-streaming coverage.
As the cease-fire took hold on January 19, a tentative sense of relief spread over Gaza, momentarily overshadowing the grim statistics. However, as the dust began to settle, that relief was quickly tempered by profound sorrow and intense grief.
From my place in the U.K., I’ve kept in touch with friends and family back home in Gaza, mostly through phone calls. Many who had bottled up their emotions to endure the war are now confronting a harsh reality. Others, with losses initially bearable, are bracing for more heartbreak as brutal truths begin to emerge. This dual burden hangs over many, especially as tens of thousands of Palestinians began the journey north on Monday.
My aunt’s home in Gaza City was destroyed, forcing her to find refuge in a greenhouse in Khan Yunis, in southern Gaza. Soon after, her son, Yousef, who had remained behind, was killed by an Israeli missile in his apartment.
Although some comfort comes from the cessation of violence, returning home feels painfully empty for her. Without Yousef, she reflects, “there isn’t much to return to,” but she longs “to return to hug my son’s grave.” Yousef was laid to rest in a makeshift grave in a public area in northern Gaza.
The scale of loss compelled many in Gaza to bury their loved ones hurriedly, often in public spaces or homes. My neighbor Arafat, at just 41, was killed by an Israeli drone and interred on the soccer field behind my family’s house in Gaza City, alongside at least 15 others.
Ayman, a dentist from the now-ravaged Jabalia relocated to Khan Yunis, shared with me that the cease-fire grants him a chance to return home “to recover his wife and three children and accord them a proper burial.” An Israeli airstrike destroyed his home in November 2023, leaving them buried among its rubble.
Like so many Gazans, Ayman coped by denying his loss. “I convinced myself that I was never married, never had kids,” he said. Facing such intense grief amid the daily fight for survival led him to choose a state of psychological numbness. Now, with the shelling paused, reality feels overwhelming.
There’s cautious optimism as Israeli troops begin withdrawing from the Netzarim Corridor, a key connector between northern and southern Gaza. The anticipation of returning home, however, is mixed with dread, as stories circulate about grim discoveries along the corridor.
My cousin Muhammad, 22, attempted to cross the corridor but narrowly escaped death. He recounted witnessing “wells filled with corpses” and seeing other bodies decomposing in the open.
My old neighbor Rami, 46, has chosen not to dwell on what might come tomorrow, instead taking it one step at a time as he prepares to return to his home in the Sheikh Redwan district of Gaza City. “Too much to process. I don’t know what to expect, but I’m open to all scenarios,” he remarked.
Rami’s family heads back with a new member in tow—a baby girl they adopted, orphaned by an Israeli airstrike in southern Gaza, one of over 17,000 orphaned children in the region. To them, she symbolizes hope.
Countless people remain unaccounted for, believed to be buried beneath 42 million tons of debris. Many in Gaza are already grieving these losses, resigned to the likelihood that their missing loved ones won’t be coming home from beneath the rubble.
“The path home is a blend of hope and horror,” my mother confessed to me when I asked if she felt ready to return.
Like so many in Gaza, she is anxious about the reconstruction. The agreement between Israel and Hamas involves a six-week cessation of hostilities, freeing of Israeli hostages, and Palestinian prisoners, followed by discussions on ending the war and finally, rebuilding Gaza. Whether these negotiations reach a fruitful conclusion remains uncertain.
The devastation in Jabalia serves as a grim reminder that reconstruction could span years. Despite deep wounds, the strength of the Palestinian spirit provides a cushion, offering hope and resilience. Yet, this resolve might evolve into anger. What happens when the orphans grow up?
There’s a shared anxiety about whether rebuilding will even be possible. Just days into the cease-fire, Israel launched an assault on the West Bank, casting doubt and fear over Gaza’s future.
“What they couldn’t accomplish through war crimes, they might attempt through unbearable living conditions,” said Ayman, the dentist from Jabalia. “Parts of Gaza are unlivable, and this might compel people to leave if they have the option,” he reflected. But with defiant determination, he concluded, “I’m here to stay. This is where my children’s bones are.”
Emad Moussa is a Palestinian British researcher and writer, specializing in the political psychology of group conflict dynamics.
