In Gaza, we pray for a permanent ceasefire, right now

May 23, 2025 — Occupied Palestinian Territory

Amid relentless suffering and destruction, a humanitarian worker* in Gaza shares their lived experience — a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and fragile hope — as the call for a true, lasting ceasefire grows louder.

We are now in the 229th day of the Israeli assault on Gaza, and each day brings new trauma. We’ve heard of another airstrike, another mass grave uncovered, another child who starved to death. Yes, the world talks about “temporary humanitarian pauses,” but here on the ground, these pauses do not mean peace. They only interrupt the killing — not end it.

We’ve lost neighbors, relatives, our homes, our routines, and our sense of safety. It’s hard to imagine what a future even looks like anymore. Every morning we wake up — if we’re lucky enough to wake up — unsure of where the next bomb will fall.

Even a whisper of ceasefire brings life

In these dark days, news of a possible ceasefire travels faster than light. A friend hears something on WhatsApp, and within minutes, our shelter is buzzing with speculation. My sister, who usually sits quietly reciting Qur’an, becomes animated the moment she hears “ceasefire.” It gives her something to hold onto — even if it’s only for a few hours.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

“WhatsApp,” she says, smiling. I haven’t had internet for days, but I cling to her smile as if it’s a sign from God.

Any rumor of peace is a breath of air for lungs filled with smoke and fear. But too often, the night brings fresh rounds of bombing. We go to bed with hope and wake up to ash.

Ceasefire rumors rise — and so do our hopes

Lately, the frequency of these rumors has increased. It’s like someone has lit a match in a cave full of gas: hope spreads instantly, wildly, without warning. Every child, every parent, everyone here is exhausted beyond words. This war has taken everything — homes, family, health, and peace of mind.

A few days ago, we heard confirmation that a pause would begin. My sisters immediately started preparing to return to their homes in Khan Younis, where they had fled weeks ago. One even considered hiring a donkey cart — fuel is almost non-existent — to make the 20 km journey. Her children cried tears of joy thinking they would see their father again after more than a month.

But then, fear returned. Her husband, still there, called to say: “Don’t come yet. It’s not safe. Wait one more day.”

The children’s hope crumbled as quickly as it came. My niece sobbed. She just wanted her father’s hug.

We thought we could finally reunite — we were wrong

I made calls to friends and my wife’s family, thinking maybe we could meet halfway. But with no fuel, no buses, and no safe passage, we realized it’s a fantasy. The 5 liters of fuel in my car are all I have left — and I’m saving it for one journey: to take my family home, if there’s ever a home to go back to.

I kept telling myself: at least aid will reach us now. At least I’ll refill the gas cylinder for my mother, or get formula for my baby. But it was wishful thinking. The aid trucks are few, the crossings are blocked, and the hunger remains.

Even our dreams now feel like lies.

This pause isn’t peace. It’s just a breath before the next wave

I know this pause is not a ceasefire. It’s a negotiation tactic. We’ve heard that the Israeli military may soon expand operations into the south — where over 2 million displaced people are crammed together. There’s no room left. No space to run. No shelter left standing.

Tonight, the bombings started again—12 airstrikes near our shelter. Land and sea artillery hasn’t stopped. I still don’t know if my house in Gaza City exists. I can’t contact friends still trapped there. I can’t leave this area. I can’t do anything.

People say the war might stop soon — but this is not what “stopping” looks like.

Tanks have crushed every street in Gaza

Every single road I used to take as a child — gone. Damaged by tanks or buried under rubble. UN estimates say 60% of all housing in Gaza has been damaged or destroyed. Over 53,000 killed, and more than 121,000 injured. Some bodies may never be found.

We miss our streets, our memories, our life

Gaza has been under siege for nearly 18 years now, but it’s still our home. We loved its beaches, its bustling cafés, its olive groves, its laughter, and its weddings. Every corner carried a memory.

Now every corner carries a crater.

We pray this “pause” will not be another cruel illusion. We pray it becomes a ceasefire. A real one. One that allows us to rebuild lives, not just walls. We pray to go home, to sit with family, to mourn properly, and to start again.

Children’s Aid message to you

If you’re reading this, please don’t turn away. You are our voice. You are our hope. We ask you to stand with Gaza. Call for a permanent ceasefire. Demand that aid reach us. Pray for us. Amplify our suffering. And please — help humanitarian organizations reach those in desperate need of current happenings. This war must end. Not next week. Now.

Please support humanitarian efforts in Gaza. Donate to Children’s Aid Here, speak out, and help us survive.

This blog is anonymized to protect the identity and safety of our colleague.