US President Donald Trump recently announced that Israel had agreed for a 60-day ceasefire in Gaza, though on “necessary conditions”. He has also vowed to secure the release of the remaining Israeli hostages still held in Gaza, describing their freedom as a cornerstone of any agreement.
This two-month ceasefire may perhaps be the first sigh of relief in months for the two million civilians trapped in the narrow, battered Gaza Strip. They have been under relentless siege since October 2023, when Hamas operatives stormed across the Israeli border and killed more than 1,200 people.
A Collective Sigh of Relief
The ceasefire will be a reprieve for medics like Dr Taher Almadhoun, a young physician I first interviewed on Zoom back in 2021 during another punishing round of bombardment. Even then, he had just lost his two brothers but kept working, tending to the wounded with a composure that almost seemed borrowed from someone else - someone not living in a city under fire.
I tried reaching him months ago, partly out of concern, partly to reassure myself that he hadn't been added to Gaza's long list of casualties. For a long time, there was no answer. But silence in Gaza is never just silence. It is the hush of collapsed buildings, the severed phone lines, the dreadful uncertainty of whether someone is alive or gone.
When his reply finally came, it was a message steeped in both exhaustion and stubborn resolve. He told me he was now married to a dentist, that they had a baby barely a year old -- a child who has never known anything but displacement. The house they built together over years of borrowed money and hope had been crushed into a mound of concrete, indistinguishable from all the other ruins.
Since the war began, they have drifted from one temporary shelter to another: crowded classrooms, tents on bare earth, the broken shells of relatives' homes. By day, he and his wife return to the wards to care for the endless influx of the wounded. By night, they try to sleep under tarpaulins, listening to the growl of drones that never really leaves the sky.
Almadhoun had ambitions to study advanced medicine abroad, to build something stable out of the wreckage. Now, those dreams have been replaced by simpler wishes: to see the dawn, to keep his child alive one more day. In Gaza, waking up to your child's face has become a rare joy not that many have been robbed of.
Yet, Almadhoun's story is not unique. It reflects the quiet ordeal of thousands of medics and nurses whose working lives have become a theatre of impossible choices. Each hour demands decisions that would unmake most people: whom to comfort with the last vial of morphine, which child to prioritise when there are no supplies left.
Life And Death
For them, a ceasefire would mean more than a pause in fighting. It would mean a chance, however fleeting, to remember what it feels like simply to live without fear. To call what's happening in Gaza a humanitarian crisis is an understatement. To call it a catastrophe feels somehow woefully inadequate. What is happening is a long, withering disintegration of a people's collective spirit - the slow unravelling of human dignity.
This is a place where the living and the dead are neighbours. The poet TS Eliot wrote in The Waste Land, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” But in Gaza, fear comes in a bag of flour, in the flicker of a drone overhead, in the empty shelves of a pharmacy
Since October 2023, some 65,000 souls have been lost - an arithmetic of horror that defies comprehension. But numbers alone cannot capture the personal hell of every mother, every child, every old man whose life has been reduced to a daily ritual of hunger, grief and dread.
Food Aid or Killing Fields?
Across Gaza, aid convoys arrive bearing food that is barely sufficient to keep people from starvation. Even this aid has become a source of terror: distribution sites have turned into killing fields. Witnesses recount how tanks, drones and machine guns have targeted civilians lining up for flour or lentils. According to local reports and the Hamas-run health authorities, at least 600 Palestinians have been killed and over 4,000 injured simply while waiting for rations.
Yet, no matter which side of politics one occupies, there is a truth that transcends the noise of blame: these people are exhausted, starving and broken. A journalist on the ground described Gaza as “a dead city, a dying city”. This is no hyperbole. Two million inhabitants, half of them children, live without running water, without electricity, without medicine. The few remaining hospitals are overwhelmed beyond any reasonable capacity. Doctors and nurses work shifts so long they barely remain conscious, tending to patients whose bodies have been ravaged by wounds, infection, or chronic illness left untreated for months.
It is here, amid the overcrowded corridors and the makeshift morgues, that the words of WB Yeats in The Second Coming feel like a prophecy:
“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
There is a sense in Gaza that the ceremony of innocence was drowned long ago. When a widow named Umm Raed al-Nuaizi asked, “Why are our children's lives seen as so cheap?”, she voiced a question that has no satisfactory answer - only the echo of silence from a world that has become accustomed to atrocity. Her son was shot and left in intensive care while trying to collect flour. In any other place, the deliberate targeting of civilians would be an unthinkable scandal. Here, it has become an almost unremarkable event
The Gaza Humanitarian Foundation, an entity supported by American and Israeli authorities, has been described by some UN officials as a “death trap”. The UN has condemned the system as grotesquely inadequate, yet it remains the only conduit for food to a population at risk of famine. The paradox is chilling: the desperate act of collecting a sack of flour can end in a funeral.
Dead Men Walking
Beyond the headlines, there is a quieter agony. Patients with diabetes or heart disease now slip away in dimly lit rooms, unable to access the simplest treatments. For them, life has become what Eliot called “the hollow men”: a grey half-existence where the body remains, but the spirit has fled.
“We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!”
If Gaza is a wasteland, it is one constructed by human hands. It's a place where hope has withered in the sun, and where each dawn brings no promise of relief.
And yet the horror does not only belong to those who are dying. Those who survive must reckon with what survival even means. A child who grows up amid such relentless trauma carries invisible wounds that no treaty can heal. Even if the guns fall silent, what future can there be for a generation that has known nothing but siege, bombardment and bereavement?
A Cemetary Of The Living
When you walk through the debris of Gaza, the landscape resembles something out of Dante - rings of hell composed of collapsed buildings, scorched cars and shattered lives. Some aid workers describe the place as “a cemetery of the living.”
There are also dozens of Israeli hostages held by Hamas, their condition unknown, their families living in paralysing uncertainty. In this tragedy, there are no simple villains or saints - only layers upon layers of pain and desperation. A mother in Rafah wonders each night if a drone's crosshairs are pointed at her roof. A father in Khan Younis calculates whether to risk fetching food or stay hidden in the ruins. A boy with pneumonia gasps for breath in a hospital with no oxygen tanks. Each day begins and ends with the same question: Will we survive until tomorrow?
When we were children learning about the Holocaust, we often asked ourselves how modern, democratic Europe -- so proud of its civilisation -- could stand by while millions of Jews were starved, humiliated and systematically erased. That chapter became not only a wound in history but a profound, unshakable shame that Europe still carries like a hidden scar.
And now, in our own lifetime, we are witnessing another terrible spectacle: a whole population being pushed beyond the brink - killed, maimed, starved and humiliated in plain view of the world. Gaza's people were already half broken from years of siege, air strikes and the slow suffocation of their daily lives. What is unfolding today feels less like a sudden catastrophe and more like the cruel final act of a long, deliberate process of subjugation.
The Death Of The Human Soul
History will judge these months not by the language of press releases or sound bytes but by the testimony of the dispossessed. Their suffering, like the 'blood-dimmed tide', has swept away any illusions that this is simply a conflict over territory or ideology. This is a catastrophe of the human soul.
It is impossible to read the accounts from Gaza without feeling that something essential is being lost. Not merely infrastructure or lives, but the moral compass that makes civilisation possible. When food becomes a pretext for slaughter, when medicine becomes a bargaining chip, when children become targets, we cross a line that should never have been crossed.
“Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow.”
That shadow now lies across Gaza, suffocating every possibility of normal life. Even if the siege were lifted tomorrow, the wounds of the spirit would remain. What jobs would there be in this dead city? What homes are left to return to? What peace can there be when so many ghosts will forever haunt the survivors?
A Flicker of Hope?
Yet amid this devastation, there is still a flicker of resilience, as fragile as a candle in the wind - the wasteland is breeding lilacs out of the dead land in an otherwise lifeless world. The people of Gaza have not relinquished their humanity, even as the world's attention drifts elsewhere. In the ruins, volunteers share water, strangers shelter the newly displaced, and doctors save lives despite knowing that each day may be their last.
This resilience is not victory, nor does it erase the horror. But it is a reminder that even in the most desolate wasteland, something sacred endures - the simple, unyielding conviction that life matters.
In the end, no matter what justification is offered, Gaza remains a place that should haunt the conscience of anyone who dares to look honestly. For all the rhetoric of policy and security, there is a deeper question that will linger long after the last shot is fired: what have we become, that we can watch such suffering and call it ‘collateral'?
(Syed Zubair Ahmed is a London-based senior Indian journalist with three decades of experience with the Western media)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
