Palestinians walk among the ruins of their homes in the Shuja’iya neighborhood of eastern Gaza, October 16, 2025. (Khalil Kahlout/Flash90)

“The tanks have withdrawn! People are returning to Gaza City!”

It was just after noon on Friday, Oct. 10, and Al-Rashid Street, Gaza’s main thoroughfare, was awash with people whistling, cheering, and shouting excitedly through their phones. I was in my relatives’ tent nearby, my heart pounding as I anxiously awaited news that the U.S.-brokered ceasefire had begun. Only a week earlier, I had been forced to flee my city as a result of Israel’s brutal invasion, and I was desperate to get home. Suddenly, it was time.

I tried, in vain, to flag down any passing vehicle, but the number of people flooding the street — many of whom had camped out overnight — far exceeded the capacity of any available transport. I grabbed my bicycle from the tent and joined the crowds heading north.

The streets were teeming with men, women, children, and the elderly all racing against time to get home. Some were eager to check if their houses were still standing. Others were rushing to reunite with loved ones who had survived the final days of the Israeli operation. Many simply wanted to leave their tents behind and breathe again inside their own homes, even if they had been largely destroyed.

When I arrived in Gaza City, I barely recognized it. The streets were filled with twisted metal, shattered glass, and debris from houses and towers flattened by Israel’s methodical bombing of high-rise buildings and use of explosive-laden robots. Many roads were completely blocked; I had to get off my bicycle and carry it part of the way.

It had only been a few days since I was displaced, but in that time every corner of the city had turned into a map of memories where physical structures once stood: my school, the cafés where I met friends, the restaurants I ate in with my family, the shops where I used to buy clothes.

Upon finally reaching my neighborhood, I was overwhelmed with relief to see my building still standing. I pulled the key from my bag and climbed the stairs with a smile, only to find the door blown open, the windows shattered, and plaster falling off the walls. All our furniture was gone. Yet I still felt lucky — I had a roof over my head, unlike thousands of others who had lost everything, now forced to live in tents.

Without realizing what I was doing, I lay down on the rubble-covered floor and cried. I was home.

 A faint pulse of life

For two years, one question stalked me day and night: Would I live to see the end of this genocidal war?

I felt death closing in on me last month as Israeli forces escalated their attacks on Gaza City. I vowed never to flee my city, but was ultimately left with no choice as tanks and quadcopters roamed the streets and bombs fell all around me.

I left my home in tears, carrying the memories of the 29 years I spent within its walls and a small bag of essentials: canned food, personal documents, winter clothes, and an album of family photos. Some relatives and friends stayed in Gaza City, unable to afford transportation, find a place to go, or overcome the exhaustion of months of displacement; I bid farewell to them before setting off, knowing that in Gaza, every separation might be the last.

Palestinians walk among the ruins of their homes in the northern Gaza Strip, October 22, 2025. (Khalil Kahlout/Flash90)

After evacuating, I continued working as a journalist from my tent in Deir Al-Balah. I walked for miles every day, looking for somewhere to charge my devices or a signal strong enough to send a report to my editors. At times, I worked from a simple tent designated for journalists near Al-Aqsa Hospital, which Israel had already bombed.

In the days leading up to the ceasefire, even the smallest rumor of progress after repeated rounds of failed talks felt like a miracle. We clung to U.S. President Donald Trump’s statements as he pushed to release Israeli hostages and broker a deal, even as American taxes continued to fund Israel’s bombs.

Every morning began with neighbors murmuring about the negotiations. “We will return soon,” said Um Saeb, an old woman living in a nearby tent, when I asked her what she’d heard that day.

When the agreement was finally announced, it felt as if a faint pulse of life had returned to Gaza. Despite skepticism and fear of another Israeli betrayal at the last moment, people cautiously began to celebrate.

Shortly after I returned home, my friend Waseem phoned me. “How is your house?” he asked. “It’s partially destroyed — my house needs a house,” I replied, before asking, “What about yours?” “I’m searching for a sign of it,” he said quietly. “The tanks bulldozed our entire neighborhood.”

Waseem and his two brothers had toiled for years to build their house in the neighborhood of Al-Tuffah, and his family refused throughout the war to leave it. But in late June, they fled under heavy Israel shelling, moving from one part of the city to another ever since.

His father, Naser, who suffers from various health problems, used to spend most of his time in their garden, planting vegetables, olives, and flowers — even during the height of the Israeli-imposed famine in northern Gaza. He once gave me some eggplants and peppers from that garden, which were small but priceless gifts during months of starvation.

My friends and I, including some who were later killed during the genocide, used to spend weekends at Waseem’s house to escape the chaos of the city center — grilling, smoking, and sometimes watching movies together.

Waseem had been planning shortly before the war to get married, so his mother sold her gold necklace to help him build a second floor. When I called to console her about the family home, I couldn’t find the words. We both cried, because in Gaza, homes are not just walls and ceilings but the embodiment of safety, memory, and peace — now all turned to dust.

 Trapped again

Those of us who survived the genocide are now beginning to try to put the pieces of our lives back together. But in Gaza City, continued Israeli attacks and clashes between Hamas and local militias are further adding to our troubles.

After I got back home, relatives who had remained in the city warned me about dangerous groups in our neighborhood that had collaborated with Israeli troops during the last days of their operation. They have been seen looting houses and threatening to kill displaced families as they returned, as well as fighting with Hamas forces. It is unclear whether these groups had decided to remain in the area or were “abandoned” by Israeli forces during the withdrawal.

Masked members of Hamas arrest several members of Yasser Abu Shabab’s militia, who are accused of collaborating with the Israeli army, according to Hamas members, southern Gaza Strip, October 22, 2025. (Saeed Mohammed/Flash90)

One day last week, as I was clearing the rubble and glass scattered all over my home to prepare for the return of my nieces and nephews from the south, I heard gunfire nearby. My ears are well-trained from the past two years: I could tell it was from a Kalashnikov rifle. I rushed to the window and saw a masked group of fighters below, identifiable by their green headbands and military-style uniforms as Hamas.

Clashes between Hamas and the militias continued for three days near my house. A bullet from a militiaman’s sniper flew directly past the building. I remained trapped inside, again wondering if and when the shooting, and the constant risk of death, would stop. Finally, some of the militia’s fighters fled, while others were caught or surrendered to Hamas before being executed.

It was eventually safe enough for the rest of my family to return home, but I remained anxious. Israeli forces continued to bomb several areas after the ceasefire came into effect, including an airstrike on Oct. 19 that killed 11 members of the Abu Shaban family as they returned to their home in eastern Gaza City.

The Israeli army said the family had crossed the “Yellow Line” into territory still occupied by troops, but it was clear they were not a security threat; they likely did not realize how dangerous it still was to go back home. The soldiers could have fired warning shots, but it seems that even after the ceasefire they are eager to continue killing.

After surviving dozens of near-death encounters over the past two years, I still struggle to believe the war has really ended. But even if our nightmare is over, will I survive the trauma that will continue to haunt me? Can those of us who survived this ever feel safe again?

Ahmed Ahmed

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