I wrote last week’s email on October 14th.
It was about the ceasefire.
How maybe, just maybe, Gaza would finally have a moment to breathe.
Six days later, it was broken.
Six days.
That’s how long “peace” survived.
That’s how long Gaza was allowed to dream before the sky fell again.
Israel has already violated the ceasefire more than 80 times.
Eighty times that hope was betrayed.
Eighty times that silence was shattered by bombs.
Eighty times that mothers clutched their children and whispered “Not again.”
And I keep thinking about the children whose stories we’ve already told.
About Lina, who still wakes up crying for her brother buried under the rubble.
About Omar, who used to draw houses until his own became dust.
About the two sisters who shared one bottle of milk. Passing it back and forth until it was empty.
And about Yousef, who sat rocking himself against a wall after his family was killed.
Too silent to scream.
How do you tell children like them that peace means anything anymore?
They don’t even celebrate ceasefires now.
They don’t smile, don’t run out into the streets like they used to.
Because they know.
They know that every truce is a pause, not an ending.
That every promise of quiet is just the sound before the next bomb.
That for Gaza’s children, “peace” is just another word that breaks too easily.
And while the world moves on,
while headlines fade,
they are still there. Waiting.
Not for peace. For food. For safety.
For someone to keep fighting when everyone else has stopped watching.
Because to them, it’s not about ceasefires or statements or negotiations.
It’s about survival. And survival is resistance.
The kind that refuses to disappear.
The kind that keeps breathing even under rubble.
The kind that keeps writing, feeding, rebuilding, remembering.
And that’s what we’ll keep fighting for.
Until no truce is needed for a child to sleep safely again.
Until the sky above Gaza means nothing more than weather.
Until mothers don’t have to count their children after every explosion.
Until the word peace is not borrowed time but forever.
Because Gaza’s children deserve more than pity.
They deserve victory.
They deserve a life that isn’t negotiated.
And we’re not stopping until they have it.
For the children who don’t even celebrate peace anymore,
Hafsa
