Breath in the Rubble: Reflections on a Fragile Truce in Gaza
it pains me to realize that all this suffering could have been avoided
This morning, I awoke with a sense of anticipation reminiscent of a child awaiting the
joys of Eid or the excitement of Christmas morning. However, the innocence that once
enlivened me seems to have faded. The prospect of a festive day no longer graces the
horizon.
Yet, there lingered an anticipation for something profound—a breath. All I yearned for on
this day was the simple act of breathing, a luxury the people of Gaza could only
embrace for a fleeting few days. It felt like a miracle amid the harrowing scenes of
destruction and violence that had unfolded over nearly fifty days. Four days of respite
before the closing of this disheartening cycle—a maximum, all that I dared to anticipate.
Childishly, I found myself gazing at the TV screen, smiling at the faces on the streets of
Gaza.
Observing people walking, shopping, children smiling for cameras, and
individuals navigating through the remnants of smashed cars—it was a glimpse of life, a
return to breathing.
A prehistoric semblance of normalcy, where people could walk,
breathe, and move without the haunting sounds of aircraft buzzing and bombardments.
Finally, everyone could breathe—everyone from both sides, including us—the people
who bear the burdens of the banality of evil orchestrated by politicians striving to control
the miseries of our existence.
In this moment, I breathed not only for myself but also for the Israelis who anxiously
await the reunion with their loved ones. I can only imagine their worries and horror, but I
know that today, we share the collective relief of breathing for the first time since
October 7th.
Yet, it pains me to realize that all this suffering could have been avoided. Amidst the
rage of war and the bitterness of humiliated defeat, the innocent lives caught in the
crossfire could have been spared, at least partially.
The anger intensifies as I witness the destruction and toll of deaths. Equally infuriating
are the images of captured children. My Palestinian consciousness attempts to shield
my emotions, yet it serves as a harsh reminder of Palestinian children about to be
released from Israeli prisons.
How vicious and cruel is this? Innocent lives paying the price for tyrants who claim to
represent a just cause—a cause that lacks the fundamental morality of being human in
the first place.
This reflection brought me back to a post I must have written during a previous
aggression on Gaza, a decade ago. In those words, tears and cries flowed freely. I
considered myself lucky then, fortunate to express my grief through words. Today,
however, that avenue seems closed, a poignant reminder of the emotional toll and
evolution over the years.
