Yahya al-Masri is a Palestinian writer and linguist in Gaza.
After a year and three months of mass killing, destruction and displacement, amid darkness and overwhelming despair, January arrived, carrying hope at the start of this year. It felt like a gentle hand patting our shoulders, reassuring us that this madness is finally coming to an end. Extensive Gaza ceasefire talks were underway, and positive news was beginning to emerge. We felt a mixture of cheerfulness and doubt. We were hopeful that the bloodshed would finally stop, but still skeptical—talks like these had happened before and led nowhere. As hope grew, sleep vanished. In the days before the ceasefire, we stayed up late, gathering around small fires to warm our cold bodies.
On the 19th of January, 2025, we gathered around a radio, listening for news. Though it was winter, the sky gave birth to a jubilant sun. Our hearts trembled with cautious optimism. Then, at 11:15 a.m., the long-awaited ceasefire went into effect. Joy overtook us; we danced, hugged and cried. It felt historic, like something heavy lifted off our exhausted souls. We had survived the genocide. For all of us, it felt like a new birth.
According to the three-stage ceasefire agreement, we would be allowed to return to the north of Gaza—to our homes—after a week. People began packing. Many chose to walk, even though the distances were long. Some areas required a full day on foot. I was living in a makeshift refugee camp with more than 200 displaced families in tents, set up by the sea along al-Rashid Street, which runs the length of Gaza's coast. We had been there since the Rafah evacuation eight months earlier. Our tents, made from fabric and wood, barely survived the burning summer sun, the winter rains and the strong winds from the Mediterranean. They were torn and uprooted many times, yet we rebuilt them again and again. We had no other choice. Still, we survived. And here I am, writing this.
We placed our hands on the ground. This is our land. This is our home, even without walls. We had returned. That, in itself, was a victory.
- Yahya al-Masri
That week in January felt endless. We counted minutes and even seconds until we could return to the homes we were displaced from 15 months earlier—homes lost not just to displacement, but to relentless bombings and brutal killings. We remained on edge until that fateful Sunday in January. The night before, some neighbors couldn't wait. They took down their tents, packed whatever they had left, and marched to the al-Rashid crossing, a barrier built by Israel to sever the north from the rest of Gaza.
Despite Israeli delays, the crossing finally opened. People entered in waves, carrying children, pushing elders in wheelchairs, clinging to the few belongings they had. The scenes were heart-wrenching, yet filled us with pride. No one hesitated. Everyone was determined to return, no matter the cost. We walked with heavy, steady steps, heading north toward homes that had become piles of rubble under so much Israeli bombardment.
As we walked, we cried, we sang, we prayed. Some spoke of memories they had left behind. Children wondered, "Will we find our toys? Will our rooms still be there?" We knew the answer—but hope is not always rational. The road was full of silence, full of stories.
When we finally arrived north, to our town of Beit Hanoun, we saw nothing but devastation. Our homes were gone, only there in ruins. Our streets, playgrounds and schools were all buried beneath the rubble. Still, we entered. We placed our hands on the ground. This is our land. This is our home, even without walls. We had returned. That, in itself, was a victory.
Our house was partly destroyed and burned. The gate was blocked by debris. My parents and I began clearing the stones, our bodies covered in dust. But we didn't stop. We were driven by the hope of finding anything: a photograph, a toy, a book. After hours, we opened the gate. We pitched a tent beside the house to clean what remained. It was a long, difficult week. In the end, I found only one thing: my old university handbag, covered in ash. I could hardly recognize it, but it was mine.
January wasn't the end of the genocide. It was the start of a new, fiercer round—one that continues to this very day.
- Yahya al-Masri
After a week, we settled into what was left of our home. I started walking through the rest of Beit Hanoun. It looked nothing like I remembered. The scale of destruction was indescribable. I walked slowly, as if in a daze, each step heavier than the last. Faces around me reflected the same exhaustion. Beit Hanoun, once our safe and beautiful town, had become a demolition site.
But with every morning, there was still a glimmer of hope. Birds still sang. White roses and green grass sprouted from the broken earth. I and so many others came to believe that no one would rebuild our town for us. We had to do it ourselves. So we began. New shops opened—in tents. People collaborated to fix broken water lines. Others shared their solar panels so we could charge our phones and radios. Our collective spirit, our sense of togetherness, allowed us to achieve so much in just a few days.
Hand in hand, we began making Beit Hanoun livable again, and even beautiful again. We had hope. Our resilience kept pushing us forward. But not everyone can stand to see us rise from ruin.
The ceasefire grew shaky. We began hearing sporadic fire and distant bombardments. Fear returned. "What's happening?" people asked. Then came the news: Israel had broken the ceasefire.
Everything deteriorated quickly. My cousins' three children—Huzaifa, Mohammed and Ahmed—had been playing just outside their tent when a projectile fired from an Israeli tank struck the area. They were killed instantly. Moments later, as the shelling intensified, Israeli forces ordered another evacuation. We had no time to gather our things. We fled once more, under fire, carrying only small bags.
January wasn't the end of the genocide. It was the start of a new, fiercer round—one that continues to this very day. We are still displaced. Our tents are thinner now. How much longer can we endure this? When will this hell finally end? Hope remains our only drive, not because things are getting better, but because we refuse to give up.
