The earth constricts around us. It squeezes us into the final corridor, forcing us to shed our limbs just to pass through. The ground crushes us; oh, if only we were its wheat, to die and live again. And if only it were our mother, to show us mercy. We wish to be the stones that our dream will carry.
– Mahmoud Darwish

Return. Homeland. Waiting. Ceasefire. The end of war. Days. Hours.
We all struggled to hear these words and the many possibilities they brought, which drove us to the brink of madness with anticipation. These uncertainties etched deeper wrinkles on our faces than our years could account for. The earth narrowed around us, and our days and hours wandered aimlessly as we awaited the end of death.

Waiting.
That feeling ravages the heart, residing between the pain of anticipation and the hopes of certainty. A moment suspended between dream and reality, with thoughts that intertwine and clash while the eyes anxiously scan the horizon, yearning for a glimmer of hope. With every passing minute, the spirit pulses with that yearning, willing for it to arrive at any moment—perhaps tomorrow, perhaps some time after. This waiting is not merely the passage of time; it is a state of living on the edge of promises.

Perhaps.
A voice within us echoes, assuring us that hope exists and draws near. Yet, we remain ignorant of what is to come. Fear and anxiety consumes our remaining spirits after months of genocidal warfare. What are we waiting for? Is it return? An eager longing for home that we have sought for so long? Or for something whose contours remain unclear?

Waiting.
With each passing moment, we face difficult and complicated possibilities. From the announcement of the ceasefire to its implementation, it feels as if time has stopped, or it flows at an agonisingly slow pace; as if the clock hands are ashamed of moving. Every moment stretches longer than the last, every passing second claims someone, and steals a new home. Every moment robs our minds of their steadiness, and our eyes return to monitor the clock, frozen as if trying to sneak through the folds of time to steal it.

In those moments, thoughts intertwine, and expectations crowd the mind. Every movement and breath become mere signals of an unending wait, weighing heavily on our hearts with every second that ticks by. It’s as if time is testing your patience, imparting new lessons added to the already daunting curriculum of genocide.

Weight.
Of countless betrayals, too many heartbreaks to count, and scars on our souls that cannot be erased. Every dream has fallen, shattered under the weight of war and death. We stand powerless in the present moment, devoid of excessive hope or many dreams; only a painful and arduous waiting. The test of time is agonising and difficult.

Return.
Hope is contingent on the wait for that first step leading our hearts back to the city where they once belonged. It is the internal battle every one of us fights to cling to that city, to the homes we lost and the streets that once knew our footsteps. Every moment of waiting feels like a breath held too long, drawing us closer to what we have lost. That city is no longer the city we knew; it will not be as it was, and life will not return to how it once was. It has become a lingering image in our minds that the winds cannot erase.

In the days leading up to the return, our eyes become the embodiment of dreams at last—one step, perhaps the first in a journey that begins from scratch, leading them back to many zeros. A journey fraught with questions, fears, and indelible memories, but one that offers the first spark igniting our hearts despite the destruction surrounding them from all sides.

The return is not merely about going back to the city; it is a return to the self, to a past filled with safety and life, where nothing is clear, guaranteed, or understood. Everything is laden with anxiety, fear, and challenges. Everything here needs rebuilding—rebuilding ourselves, mending our souls, attempting to restore the city and its space. Every corner tells a story of pain, sacrifice, and anguish. The journey will be long and exhausting; indeed, the journey to freedom requires much time and an abundance of hope. Our only strength is hope and patience; we cling to it with our weary souls, believing that everything will be alright and that the spirit of the city will return, no matter what happens.

Home.
Here, it is metaphorical. There are no homes left; they have all been destroyed. Those who remain are gasping their last breaths, awaiting the return of their friends, the owners of the homes that have vanished. The world has become a strange place for them, devoid of safety or shelter, their walls reduced to rubble. Many homes have become graves, and the streets are empty of the faces they knew.

Loss is not solely about the place; it encompasses every moment lost, every story left unfinished. All choices are harsh, each carrying a new and heavy burden on our hearts, filled with deep wounds requiring long healing. The bewilderment in everyone’s eyes, and our many repeated questions after the ceasefire: Where will we go? We have no home, no place, no one—just us and the destruction.

The voices are many; everywhere south of the valley, a wandering voice searches for lost answers. Perhaps the answers have also been swallowed by war. There is a voice saying, “We will return”; another observing, “I don’t know where to go”; and yet another wondering, “What comes after returning?” The questions are numerous, spawning more questions that are inescapable. There is no luxury in providing answers to all these inquiries. What we know and possess is only our collective desire, our strange ability to endure, and our profound love for this land—all of which seem to have no limits, despite our broken and torn souls. For now, sadness, cruelty, challenges, and the unknown are the answers we have.

Hope.
In the midst of war, hope in Gaza becomes a complex feeling, a contradiction between the deep need to survive and the harsh reality that asserts itself. Is it a real hope? Or merely a form of madness? Is hope in this situation rational? How can a human heart continue to beat with hope amid all this death and destruction? These question echo in our hearts as we face a battle we never chose to fight from the beginning. With every moment that devastation scatters around them, the hope of returning to the life we once knew feels closer to an impossible dream.

Yet, we cannot shake off this hope because it is like the edge of a sword, almost wounding us if we do not hold on to it, for it is simply what keeps us going, allowing us to reclaim our identity and recognise ourselves amid all this chaos.

In the shadow of war and destruction, which has lasted for so long, we stand on the edge, nearly falling into an abyss without bottom, often plunging into a sea of despair from which survival seems impossible. Does hope remain a choice, or does it become something imposed on the people of Gaza? Perhaps hope here is neither a luxury nor a desire, but rather a form of resistance, known only to Gazans, who lack the luxury of choice. They cling to whatever hope remains, as if it were the last straw that could save them from drowning in a sea of ashes. It is a force that renews itself with every moment, not because Gazans choose to be optimistic, but because we are compelled to survive.

Hope in Gaza is not a comfortable idea, nor is it a spectre of luxury or psychological ease; it is a harsh pursuit with which we confront time and space, clinging to it as one would cling to a lifeline. It is the inevitability that grants us the strength to persist, to resist despair despite every blow of reality. In that place, hope is not a luxury; it is a necessity, the antidote that alleviates pain and gives the heart the power to endure—even if just for a moment.