Staff Account: A “Ceasefire” that didn’t stop anything

GAZA, 9 October 2026 - A year ago, we were told that the war had ended when the ceasefire was declared. But for us, it does not feel like the war has ended.

Only a week ago, a vehicle was hit by an Israeli airstrike as it passed through the neighborhood where my daughter and I now live. Only ten minutes separated the airstrike from the moment we entered the house. My daughter panicked that day and got a fever. She still gets frightened when the wind slams the door shut. She is afraid of car horns because she grew up surrounded by the sound of ambulances. To be honest, I am afraid too. I just try not to show it. I pretend that everything is normal because she needs to feel that it is.

I can hear surveillance drones overhead all day. We are still surrounded by Israeli military forces by the air, the sea, and the land.  
 
The road to work is lined with makeshift tents that have been standing for more than two years. The families living in them have endured extreme heat, heavy rain, strong winds, bombardment and shrapnel, in these flimsy' makeshift tents. The tents themselves are worn out. They are fragile. They look like the lives of the people living inside them.

Before the war, the road was lined up with palm trees. Many of them were destroyed. The others were cut down for cooking because cooking gas became scarce.

Today on the route, I noticed that my shirt was badly wrinkled. It reminded me that the last time I ironed my clothes was three years ago. There is no reliable electricity to run an iron. There is barely any electricity at all. The electricity available today comes mainly from generators that depend on scarce and expensive fuel.

Nearly two million Palestinians are now squeezed into almost one-third of Gaza's space. There is no freedom to travel or move. Necessities remain difficult to obtain.

Because of Israeli government restrictions, the crossings remain heavily constricted, and the number of humanitarian and commercial trucks entering Gaza remains limited. This means that food and different necessary needs are expensive.

But for thousands of patients, leaving Gaza for medical treatment remains a matter of life and death. Travel is still a dream for more than 22,000 patients, according to the Government Media Office in Gaza, who urgently need medical evacuation. 

In Gaza there are no building materials, no reconstruction, and no quick solutions. The list of “no”s is long. 
 
In the middle of all of this destruction, there are still small moments that matter. Seeing colleagues at work. Sitting together. Sharing a cup of coffee. During the famine and the worst periods of the war, having coffee together was something we dreamed about.

Today, I had a field assignment at one of Save the Children’s child-friendly spaces. The happiness of the children was overwhelming - they looked as though they had discovered a wonderland! But this wonderland was a tent. More than 98% of schools have been destroyed, while many of those that remain have become shelters for displaced families.

That is why these spaces are so important. They give children a place to play, learn, and feel like children again. It is a beautiful thing. 

But sometimes it is also heartbreaking that we celebrate a child being able to learn inside a tent after almost every school in Gaza was destroyed. This is what humanitarian organizations are trying to do with the limited resources available, and the supplies permitted to enter Gaza.

But there are needs we cannot solve inside a child-friendly space. Thousands of children have sustained permanent disabilities and need a safe and accessible environment to move around. Instead, they are encountered by sand, rubble, and destroyed roads.

A year after the ceasefire was announced, amputee children are still waiting for prosthetic limbs that have been repeatedly denied entry by the Israeli authorities. How do you convince a child who has lost a limb, and still cannot access the medicine or surgery they need, that the war ended a year ago?

People think humanitarian workers have a magic wand. We don’t. We are living through this, too. We are trying to do our jobs while carrying our own losses, fears, and memories. 

A year has passed since the ceasefire. But my daughter is still fatherless. My home is still a pile of rubble. The city where I spent my entire life has become a place I barely recognize.