Malak Hijazi
Mondoweiss / August 25, 2024
Our hope for a ceasefire has been weaponized against us. Every time politicians issue statements, mediators shuttle between capitals, headlines promise a breakthrough, and then it all falls apart. And every time, my hope breaks me.
I have lost count of how many times I have clung to the hope of a ceasefire, only to watch it crumble into dust. As the war in Gaza stretches into the summer of 2024, the promise of ending this suffering has become nothing more than a cruel illusion. Every time the news mentions new negotiations, I feel a flicker of hope — a tiny, fragile flame that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. But deep down, I know the pattern all too well.
As time seemed to stand still in October, my life was suspended in a state of uncertainty. I made a list of what I would do on the first day after the war ends: reconnect with loved ones in Southern Gaza whom I cannot meet now, take a deep breath of freedom, contemplate what lies ahead, and grieve for those lost. In Gaza, we don’t have the privilege of properly mourning. Our days are consumed by an unforgiving routine: evacuating from one place to another, listening to the news, carrying water, searching for food, and gathering wood to make a fire. Soon, the familiar pattern emerges —negotiations collapse, the blame game begins, and hope slips through my fingers like sand.
Every month follows the same script: politicians issue statements, mediators shuttle between capitals, and headlines tout the promise of a breakthrough. There’s some progress, then a significant step forward, but Israel holds firm, and it all falls apart.
Hope followed by a massacre
People in Gaza are victims of massacres. But they also have fallen prey to a hope that is being weaponized against them. In the shadows of negotiations, Israel unleashes its most brutal massacres. Over ten months of genocide, I recall countless moments when my family and I clung to hope, only for it to be shattered by yet another massacre. Again and again, hope betrayed me and everyone I know.
After the first ceasefire in November, there was talk of extending it to end the war. I felt a brief comfort, but it was soon destroyed. Just one week after the ceasefire broke, I experienced the worst day of my life. The Israeli army invaded my home, forcing my family and myself to leave in the dead of night without our phones or any source of light. I was terrified, especially when an Israeli soldier threatened to kill us. I walked with tears streaming down my face, gripped by fear. We eventually found refuge in a hospital, where I slept on a filthy floor before heading to a relative’s house. A month later, we returned to a changed neighborhood. Our house was partially destroyed, while many families had lost theirs entirely.
In March, my aunt called us, convinced the war would end before Ramadan, based on the news she had read. She was happy and hopeful, even sharing her plans for life after the war and the recipes she would cook. But not long after, the Israeli army invaded Al-Shifa Hospital and the surrounding neighborhood for the second time, where my aunt lived. She was trapped in her home for three days during Ramadan, with no food or water, terrified by the sounds of tanks bombing everything around without any clear target. When we called her, she was crying, feeling death was near. The Israeli army eventually invaded her house, forcing her, her children, and the neighbors to move south on foot, with empty stomachs, walking over the bodies of the dead.
In May 2024, Hamas signaled its willingness to accept a ceasefire proposed by U.S. President Joe Biden. For a brief moment, people thought the horrors of war were finally ending. I vividly remember that day. Displaced families taking refuge in a nearby school were shouting and celebrating, embracing a fleeting sense of happiness as they believed relief from relentless suffering was within reach. Neighbors cried tears of joy, and my little nieces jumped up and down with excitement. But that joy was short-lived. The very next day, Israel launched an invasion of Rafah, shattering the brief hope for a promised end.
Each round of negotiations is met with what is termed increased “military pressure” on Hamas, which often translates to the killing of more Palestinians. Israel employs a strategy that involves committing war crimes and massacres to derail negotiations, such as burning the tents of displaced people, killing over 200 Palestinians to free four Israeli hostages, or killing 100 Palestinians during dawn prayers. Israel justifies these crimes as necessary to impose its conditions for a ceasefire. But what are these conditions? Israel does not truly want the war to end. It seeks only a brief pause to regroup before returning to kill more Palestinians. Israel wants control over the Philadelphi and Netzarim corridors to dominate the lives of Palestinians indefinitely, blocking access to food and medicine, increasing travel restrictions, and making life in Gaza unlivable once more. And it still prevents Palestinians from returning to their houses in north Gaza.
When our hope is weaponized against us
After each failure of ceasefire negotiations, I question the purpose of the ongoing war: What does Israel truly want? A regional war? The complete eradication of Palestinians in Gaza? The forced displacement of Palestinians into Egypt? What plans are being devised behind closed doors? I find myself overanalyzing every statement from Israeli leaders and American presidential candidates. Our lives seem to be controlled by criminal psychopaths.
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has affirmed that there will be no withdrawal of Israeli military forces from Gaza. What does this mean? Does it imply that they can invade our city at will, killing everyone in their path and destroying any remaining homes? For how long? Two, three, or even ten years? Will we be constantly under threat, living in fear of death or injury for the rest of our lives, if we are fortunate enough to survive?
The Democrats’ decision to allocate an additional $3.5 billion to Israel after Kamala Harris called for an end to the war seems remarkably disingenuous. This contradiction highlights a troubling hypocrisy. How many more children will suffer? How many homes will be reduced to rubble? How many dreams will be destroyed?
When Donald Trump advocates for expanding Israel’s territories, what does that entail? Which lands will be taken? Are we to be forcibly relocated to the Sinai Desert?
Both the U.S. and Israel are driven by their pursuit of military victory and political gain, all at our expense. Yet, no one seems to care that Gaza needs to be rebuilt. Our children need to return to school, and we must reconstruct our universities and hospitals. While we strive to restore our lives and infrastructure, the focus remains on political and military goals, leaving our essential needs and future prospects neglected.
As this war nears the one-year mark, I’ve come to realize that these ceasefire negotiations are just another weapon in this war. They dangle the promise of ending this holocaust in front of us, only to snatch it away when we reach out for it. I watch the world talk about the need for a ceasefire, I hear the speeches, and I see the headlines, but here on the ground, nothing changes. Massacre after massacre happens in horrific ways, and the innocent who dreamed of the war’s end die. I wonder how much hope those who were killed had. Like me, they too were planning for the end of the war. Yet, what else could I do? Even the drowning soul clings to the hope of a lifeline. What allows me to bear the weight of life is hope, and what breaks me each time is also hope.
Malak Hijazi is a writer based in Gaza
