Not a time for dreams: Palestinians in Gaza meet news of ceasefire with trepidation & quiet hope

Children celebrating the ceasefire announcement outside Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza on 9 October 2025

Nagham Zbeedat reports in Haaretz on 9 October 2025:

Two days after the two-year anniversary of Hamas’ October 7 attack and the start of Israel’s war in Gaza, both sides announced on Thursday that they had reached an agreement on the first phase of a deal to end the war and release the hostages.

Within hours, videos from across the Gaza Strip showed children dancing in the streets, people cheering and families embracing as news of the long-awaited cease-fire spread.

Throughout the past two years, Haaretz has spoken with dozens of Palestinians in Gaza – parents, students, doctors, children – who described the long months of hunger, fear and loss they endured with no end in sight. Some spoke of burying loved ones; others conveyed the great lengths they went to while searching for food or shelter after being displaced repeatedly. In light of the cease-fire, Haaretz reached out to them once more to ask what this moment means, what they hope for and how it feels to finally imagine a future.

For many, the announcement brought a mix of disbelief, cautious relief and uncertainty. “I was trying to keep up with the news, but I didn’t have a stable internet connection,” says Osama Abdul Hadi, 27, from Gaza City, who is among those displaced multiple times since the start of the war. “My friend sent me a text message that they had reached an agreement, and then I lost my internet connection. Later on, I heard cheers and takbeer [a word for the Arabic phrase ‘Allahu Akbar,’ often chanted to express joy], and I knew there would be a cease-fire.”

Osama, however, says he’s not excited, “at least not like the last cease-fire” that was secured in January and broken by Israel in March. “Because last time we thought that the war would end and never return, only to return harder and more vicious. Even now, nothing can stop it from returning.”

When Haaretz last spoke to Osama a few weeks ago, Gaza City was under heavy bombardment as Israel expanded its ground offensive there, and he feared being displaced again. He had already fled his home in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood to his grandmother’s house in Shati refugee camp, after drones and strikes turned his area into what he described as a “ghost town.” He recalled that “ambulances were targeted when they tried to respond to cases” and that “civil defense members were terrorized when they tried to put out fires.” He had also injured himself – falling from a rooftop in panic when a drone fired nearby.

Now, even as Gaza celebrates, the memory of what came after the last truce still haunts him. “It’s on my mind that the war might return,” he says. “I still remember the night that Israel violated the first cease-fire so clearly.”

Children living at a camp for displaced people in central Gaza celebrate the cease-fire announcement.

He recalls earlier this year, on March 18, when the world awoke to the news that Israel had resumed its war on Gaza after a two-month truce. “It was late at night. I was awake and I’d bought a package of cigarettes that cost me a kidney,” he says with a faint, bitter laugh. “I was making coffee, sitting on the balcony. The night was quiet, even the drones weren’t audible. Then suddenly, the sky turned red – heavy strikes everywhere. Everyone woke up wondering what was happening, and no one had the answers. None of us had a second of sleep.”

The memory of that night lingers – much like the day his sister was wounded in an Israeli airstrike on Al-Baqa Café, a popular seaside venue in Gaza City, in July. The attack killed at least 30 people and wounded dozens more, including his cousin. “I took my cousin’s dead body to the hospital, wondering if my sister is among the other burned bodies,” he says. “I was called to identify her among three bodies that were retrieved from the café, but she wasn’t one of them. Only later that day did I know she was taken to the hospital and treated. When I found her, she was soaked in blood from her own injuries – and from our cousin’s.”

Living through that night has made it difficult for him to trust this new moment of calm. “Before the war, I was a man,” he says quietly. “Now I’m a changed person. I was a normal guy with ambitions to improve myself and make something out of myself. Now I no longer care. I was the one helping and supporting my family throughout the war, and that was the only thing I cared about. All the money I saved for my studies is now gone. The vision that I had for myself is no longer there. From now on, whatever happens, happens.”

He pauses, then adds, “We will need years and even decades to rebuild what was destroyed – not just the buildings and streets, but the spirit and the passion to keep moving forward.”

‘Fear, waiting, not daring to believe it’s true’
For Hana Ghussien, an English teacher who became a humanitarian activist during the war, the announcement of a cease-fire feels almost impossible to believe. When we last spoke to her for a podcast episode in July, she described the hunger spreading across Gaza. Days later, contact with her was lost. When she finally called back, her voice was muffled by tears – her close friend had just been killed in an Israeli airstrike.

Now, two years later, at 32 years old, her voice trembles again – this time with a mix of disbelief and relief.  “I’m still in shock. I can’t believe it yet,” she says, her voice breaking between words. “I’m so happy, but I’m also scared. Since the moment news broke that the negotiations resumed, we’ve been following every update – not just by the hour, but every second. I was so anxious, hoping this time it would really happen.”

She says she was sitting with her family when they heard the news. “We knew they were going to announce it at midnight. The tension was unreal – fear, waiting, not daring to believe it’s true. We were so afraid it would collapse like every time before, that it would fall apart at the last moment and we’d be left with nothing but false hope.”

Hana pauses. “There’s still fear,” she admits softly. “But happiness and hope are stronger.”  She glances at her young nephew, who still flinches when he hears drones buzzing above. “He asked me, ‘How can the war be over if the drone is still in the sky?’ He can’t believe it either. None of us really can. After living through two years of genocide, fear and destruction – it’s hard to believe it’s finally ending.   “I’m optimistic this time. I believe the truce will hold. I pray it does.”

When asked what she dreams of next, she says, “There are many things I wish for, but the first is to travel and finish my master’s degree abroad. I used to dream of studying human rights or international relations. That dream died during the war, but now it’s coming back to life. I’m full of hope it might finally come true.”

Then, after a pause, she adds quietly, “No one went through this war and came out the same person.  Every time I survived death, I felt my humanity was violated. Every time someone I loved was killed, every time my dignity as a woman and a human being was broken – something in me changed,” she explains. “When I saw people torn to pieces in front of me, when I was displaced and lived in a tent, when my sister had to sleep on the street and she couldn’t find a bathroom; when my brother came out from under the rubble covered in blood; when I was sick and couldn’t find clean water to drink; or when I went to sleep crying from hunger – I changed.”

Her voice falters for a moment before she continues. “Everything changed me. I can’t name one moment. It’s been two full years – and no mind can truly comprehend what we lived through.”

‘This cease-fire is driving us to the unknown, to a mirage’
Thaer’s experience is a story of loss, survival and deep uncertainty. The father of a four-year-old son, who previously worked as a lawyer and spoke to Haaretz in August, was injured twice and displaced many times throughout the last two years. He lost his unborn son when his wife was injured in an Israeli airstrike that targeted their home. For him, the cease-fire is not just news – it is life itself.

“The second I heard the news about the agreement, the first thing that came to my mind was, ‘How am I supposed to live with this news? Is the war really over? Will the bloodshed really end?'”

For Thaer, the uncertainty comes from deeper wounds. “Among other things that came to my mind was how this agreement would be implemented when half of the Gaza Strip is in central Gaza, and people are scattered on the streets. What will our lives look like? This cease-fire is driving us to the unknown, to a mirage. We don’t understand our present or what will happen in the next hour. However, mainly, we thank God that the bloodshed will end.”

He pauses, reflecting on the losses he has endured. “I look at my son beside me, my son that I lost, my family members that I lost, my house that was destroyed, every struggle that I lived, every tragedy I witnessed throughout two years of genocide. How am I supposed to convince my subconscious that it has ended?”

For Thaer, there is no certainty that the deal will hold. “Whether the cease-fire will break or not, no one can predict anything, not [Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin] Netanyahu’s side, not Hamas’ – because both live in a world that lacks humanity.”

“Those who forced their people and even their enemies to live two years of genocide, and every form of torture without the slightest consideration of human rights, cannot be trusted. We lived in devastating conditions. Hamas was able to agree to better conditions during [former U.S. President Joe] Biden’s term.” Thaer said that now, “we are scared to say ‘the war has ended,’ because the last time we did, we lost families and friends.”

Throughout the two years of war, Thaer says his own family’s history haunted him. “My grandparents were forcibly displaced during the war in 1948 from Be’er Sheva, and in 2023 I have lived the same and even worse destiny as my father. This is history that repeats itself in different forms of struggles. I will carry this pain with me.”

His endurance was motivated by protecting his family. “I survived seven airstrikes: at my home, my uncle’s, random public spaces, aid distribution points, and lastly, along with my child, we were targeted at the Nuseirat market where 20 people were killed last week – but thank God, we survived. The people around me, the fear to protect my child and family kept me pushing forward. I tried my best to always provide them with safe spaces. I even asked some of the people I know and trust to protect my family if I were to die.”

He looks toward the future with caution – especially when it comes to rebuilding Gaza. Trump’s 20-point plan includes promises to “rebuild and energize Gaza,” the UN estimates reconstruction will cost at least $53 billion and take 15 years.

“Forget all of the statistics and reports. [Based on] what we live and see, we will need at least five decades to get to the point we once were,” Thaer asserts. “We will wait for them to bring in the materials needed to rebuild, which will take years and will delay everything. If the borders were to open, I’d take my family and leave the Strip and wait for rebuilding that I have little faith in to happen – because as long as there is not a stable country with a stable government, it is all fantasy.”

Even though the war is ending, Thaer’s priority remains survival. “It is not time for dreams, but to collect ourselves, to reprioritize our needs. We are reborn today – all of the dreams we had before the war are no longer there. We just want to survive, to provide our lives with the basic needs which are now considered the biggest dreams.”

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