“Ceasefire” May Be the Official Headline, But in Gaza, We Face Constant Bombing

“Ceasefire” May Be the Official Headline, But in Gaza, We Face Constant Bombing By Dalia Abu Ramadan This article was originally published by Truthout Being forced to repeatedly search for a place that feels safe when no such place exists is a form of slow death. As a daughter of Gaza City — a place that has endured every possible attempt to destroy the very meaning of life — I had lost every sense of safety and security until the announcement of a ceasefire in October 2025. At that time, hearing about the ceasefire felt like hearing that a terminally ill patient had finally been cured. At last, we believed we would sleep in peace. We believed we would walk through our streets without fear and live without bombings or death. We thought the nightmare was over, that life was finally giving us a chance to breathe again. But we soon tragically realized that our city had lost its sense of security entirely, as the bombings never truly stopped, and fear never left our hearts. The chaos left behind by the war has trapped people in Gaza in constant uncertainty. Since then, I have come to understand the value of life more deeply than ever before. Imagine a city emerging from devastation only to discover that the threat of death still lingers in different forms: through fear, disorder, and the painful realization that the peace we longed for was only a fleeting illusion. On May 20, 2026, I was speaking with my friend Ghada, who was staying in the southern Gaza Strip. Then, she suddenly disappeared from the call. I tried reaching her several times until I received a voice message from her. “Do you know? We have nothing left to remember … all our past has been erased,” her message said. “My neighborhood in Al-Maghazi, where I grew up — especially my grandfather’s house — and the entire area were heavily destroyed just moments ago.” I called her back in panic. “What happened? How? Why?” I asked. She told me that the Israeli army had contacted her uncle to inform the family, and others in the area, to evacuate immediately because a building sheltering dozens of displaced families — located next to her grandfather’s house and her relatives’ homes — was about to be bombed. No one knew the reason. Everyone left … except Ghada’s aunt. She stayed inside the house until the rubble crushed her body and shattered glass covered her face. I recognized the pain in Ghada’s voice because I know exactly what it means to lose the place where you grew up. I wished her story had been the last one of this kind that I would hear, but it wasn’t. On May 26, during the Day of Arafah — the day before Eid al-Adha, when Muslims fast — we began preparing for what we believed would be our first Eid after the ceasefire. Usually, the markets are filled with families buying holiday essentials, baking traditional Eid cookies, and preparing for the customary sacrifice. But after months of war and soaring prices, sacrificial animals had become unaffordable for most families. We settled for baking Eid cookies and buying a little chocolate, hoping to welcome Eid morning with at least a small measure of joy. We had been waiting for that Eid with unbearable anticipation, believing it would be the first one we could truly celebrate since the ceasefire. The day I was fasting and preparing for Eid with my family became one of the hardest of my life. We had just prepared our iftar meal when my father called my brother, Mohammed, to check on him. Mohammed told him he would break his fast with a friend nearby. “I’ll be at Al-Rimal Market, just a short distance from home, so don’t worry,” he said. “Afterward, my friend Helal and I will do a little shopping. Save me some food — I’ll eat it when I get back.” He hung up. Moments after we began eating, five missiles struck in rapid succession, shaking our neighborhood with terrifying force. The blasts were so violent that, for a moment, I forgot I had been fasting. I forgot everything. The explosions had landed only