A ceasefire agreement between parties in international conflict should mean an end to airstrikes, evacuation orders, and the constant fear of displacement on all sides. Yet, nine months after the announcement of a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas, Palestinians in Gaza continue to face all of these threats.
The ceasefire agreement implemented on October 10, 2025, called for an official end to two years of bombing and bloodshed in Gaza and brought hope that life in the region would eventually stabilize after months of reported famine conditions and devastating shortages of medical equipment and other basic necessities.
People across Gaza were cheering and celebrating everywhere. We were all driven by the same desperate hope that we might finally be able to return to our homes we'd evacuated as a result of the war, regardless of whether they were still standing or had been reduced to rubble.
Our home in Jabalia had been completely destroyed, but that did not matter to us. We were ready to return to whatever was left of it because at least it was home. But now, nearly a year after the ceasefire was announced, we still have not been able to return. Jabalia has been designated as part of the Yellow Line, an area where Israeli forces have maintained aggressive military control despite the ceasefire. Instead of withdrawing as stipulated in the agreement, Israel has continued an active ground offensive to expand the area under its control—leaving our home, like many others, out of reach.
We had grown accustomed to airstrikes throughout the days of the ceasefire, even when they struck densely populated areas. But recently, airstrikes and evacuation orders have also begun occurring at night. On Wednesday, July 22, as families across Gaza were preparing for the announcement of the Tawjihi results the following day, sudden evacuation orders were issued late at night across several areas at the same time. Al-Yarmouk camp, where my family and I were living in a tent, was among them.
The orders immediately caused panic. People were frightened and unsettled, unsure whether they would have to face displacement again or where they might go instead. The orders did not specify which specific areas would be targeted by strikes, leaving residents to fear that nearby areas could become targets as well. Families had to decide whether to stay or flee without knowing what would happen next.
My father was standing outside our tent when the evacuation orders were announced. I was inside the tent with my mother and sister, trying to figure out whether we were in danger and if we needed to evacuate. We quickly gathered our belongings and prepared to leave. But we were unsure where we could go. The evacuation orders covered several areas, and we feared most places around us were potentially at risk. We had already been displaced once, and the area where we were staying was one of the places named in the orders. In the end, we decided to stay.
Then the bombing began. The strikes were extremely intense, and we sat together in a corner of the tent, waiting for them to stop. After a while, the bombing stopped, but we were still left feeling unsafe and unsettled.
It was the night before results for the Tawjihi, the standardized exam for high school students in Palestine, were due to come out—what would have normally been a time of anticipation for our academic futures. Instead, we were afraid for our lives.
The evacuation orders were not limited to Al-Yarmouk. They affected several areas across Gaza, including Al-Zeitoun and Al-Jalaa Street in Gaza City, the Bureij and Maghazi refugee camps in central Gaza, and parts of Jabalia and Beit Lahia in the north, while displaced families in Khan Younis also faced attacks on their tents. For us, the question was not simply where to go, but whether there was anywhere safe left to go.
On July 28, another sudden evacuation order was issued for the Al-Yarmouk area. At first, we tried to stay, thinking it would be like the previous order and the danger might pass. But this time, the target was terrifyingly close. We were forced to run with nothing but a single bag, leaving everything behind with nowhere safe to go.
For nearly two hours, we stood in the streets alongside countless men, women, and children, consumed by fear and sheer panic. Suddenly, the targeted area was bombed, covering us in dust and debris.
This is what living through a ceasefire has come to mean: trying to continue with ordinary life without knowing when an evacuation order, an airstrike, or another night of terror will interrupt it. Nine months into the ceasefire, I still do not know what it means to feel safe. Every day, we hear news of people being martyred, homes being bombed, and new evacuation orders. And whenever we make plans for anything, we always add, “if we are still alive, God willing.”
None of us knows what will happen to us. At any moment, a strike could happen nearby, and we could be killed. A ceasefire may have been announced, but for those of us living in Gaza, the fear of war has not ended. It feels like a lie. The ceasefire exists only on paper.