Yahya al-Masri is a Palestinian writer and linguist in Gaza.
As ceasefire talks continue in Doha and Washington, with global leaders debating hostages, timelines and humanitarian arrangements, the people of Gaza listen—not with hope, but with weariness. Many feel excluded from a process that claims to be about them. They wonder: Will this ceasefire mean another short pause in bombing, or will it finally bring real change?
"These talks sound far away, like it belongs to another world" said Nour, a 27-year-old woman displaced from Gaza City who studied pharmacy at Al-Azhar University before the war.
"We want peace, yes—but not silence between airstrikes. We want to be included. We want guarantees, not just negotiations," she added.
Bilal, a 30-year-old nurse who works at a field clinic run by local volunteers and who was forcibly displaced from her home in Beit Hanoun, echoed a common frustration: "Every ceasefire sounds good on television, but nothing changes here. If this one is real, it must mean an end to displacement, an end to hunger and a return to normal life."
Abu Samir Khalifa, a 66-year-old man from Jabaliya who cares for his diabetic wife, noted the issue of hunger in an interview. "I haven't eaten for days. I'm an old man—I cannot take all this. Sometimes I collapse from dizziness," he said, with a faint but fading spark in his eyes. "We desperately need this ceasefire to let food in.
"This is unbearable."
These and countless other voices echo through Gaza's tent camps and crumbled streets. They remind us that for most Gazans, ceasefire talks are not about politics or media statements but an issue more raw—survival. That means having enough food, a safe place to sleep, and the mere hope of living with dignity. Without these basics, words remain empty promises, as ceasefires remain fragile hopes.
And yet, as these talks unfold, another proposal—closely connected to the ceasefire—hangs over Gaza's head: the creation of a so-called "humanitarian city" in Rafah.
In the Strip's southern city, once considered a final refuge, Israel now proposes the creation of this "humanitarian city" to house and provide safety for up to 600,000 displaced people. But to many Gazans, it feels less like protection and more like concentration and confinement.
Ahmad, a 34-year-old teacher living in a displacement camp with his elderly mother and his three children, has been displaced six times in nine months. "Now, they want to push us into a fenced zone and call it safety? That's not safety," he said.
"That's a trap."
Like Ahmad, many Gazans feel this proposed zone is less a humanitarian solution and more a logistical measure—a way to control people rather than care for them. Of course, we understand the urgent need for shelter and aid. However, any operation providing these basic resources must be conducted in a manner that respects people's humanity and freedom, rather than serving nefarious political objectives.
Layla, a 22-year-old university student, put it plainly: "They talk about a 'safe zone,' but it feels like they want to erase us, not protect us. We want education, not cages."
For many Gazans, the most painful aspect of this bleak reality is not just the loss of homes. Rather, it is the recurring feeling that the world is speaking about us, but not to us.
- Yahya Al Masri
"Our future is being stolen piece by piece," she added.
Most of the Palestinians of Gaza previously experienced displacement multiple times. Some of us carry memories from the wars of 2008, 2012 and 2014—and now today. This time, the difference is in the scale and duration of the accompanying suffering.
For many Gazans, the most painful aspect of this bleak reality is not just the loss of homes. Rather, it is the recurring feeling that the world is speaking about us, but not to us.
Hassan, a volunteer medic working in a makeshift medical post, put it plainly to me: "The humanitarian city sounds like a prison. How can people heal if they're locked away and supervised?"
"People need open spaces, dignity and the ability to choose where they live," he added.
Gaza today is facing not just a military onslaught, but Israel's intentional humanitarian nightmare and a genocide of the Strip's inhabitants. Food insecurity has reached unprecedented levels. According to the World Food Programme, nearly every family in Gaza now faces hunger, with 500,000 facing starvation. Bread is rationed by the bite. Families reuse diapers and purify water however they can. There is no fuel for refrigerators or hospitals, barely any medicine for fevers and the nights stretch endlessly under drone surveillance.
Omar, a 45-year-old shopkeeper from Khan Younis, lost both his home and business in the war. "The aid we get barely scratches the surface," he said. "They say ceasefires will come, but each time, we feel forgotten again."
"We don't want just food drops—we want to return to our lives; to work; to raise our kids in peace."
This point is why many Gazans are skeptical when they hear the word "ceasefire." Too often, it has produced only a brief pause in the bombing—not an end to the suffering. Ceasefires come and go, but the blockade remains. The trauma continues. And the promises of reconstruction and recovery never seem to reach us.
There is a tragic irony in how the world speaks of protecting Palestinians without asking what we want. Even respected international bodies have voiced concern about the "humanitarian city" in Rafah. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) warned that concentrating hundreds of thousands of civilians in a controlled zone without freedom of movement is "an insult to humanitarian principles." Tamara al‑Rifai, UNRWA spokesperson, likened it to a "concentration camp."
The United Nations has similarly stated that it "firmly opposes any forced displacement," voicing deep concern over relocating Palestinians into such a "city."
In short, the move constitutes a clear violation of international humanitarian law.
These warnings reflect the fears I hear every day from my fellow Gazans—not because we read legal reports, but because we are living with the consequences of their corresponding actions.
As a Gazan and a writer, I do not claim to speak for everyone. However, no one I spoke with desires confinement under such conditions, let alone at all.
So, what do Gazans want?
We want the siege to end. We want to live with freedom in our communities. We want the ability to return to our homes, even if they are rubble. We want free access to food, clean water, medicine, electricity and schools. We want to raise our children without fear and drones overhead. We want international actors to engage with us—not just plan for us.
Above all, we want the dignity we deserve as fellow human beings.
The international community must recognize that Gazans are not passive recipients of aid. We demand agency, memory and hope—just as any other person or community. Any ceasefire that does not center our voices risks repeating the mistakes of the past. Any solution that limits our freedom or ignores our needs will never bring lasting peace.
This war has taken far too much. What we ask now is simple: Let it not take our future too. If there is to be peace, it must begin with respect for our voices, our rights and our humanity.
