The first thing I would do is to visit my demolished home, then to rush to my grandparents’ and uncles’ house to greet them and hug them after long months of separation, writes Huda Skaik. [GETTY]
The ceasefire came into effect in Lebanon. The bombing stopped. The Lebanese breathed a sigh of relief. Yet, for us Gazans, we don’t know when the war will end. The final line of our story is still unknown, like an open-ended novel.
What does the first day after war truly look like for a survivor? What do they think of in those quiet, fractured moments when the devastation finally recedes, and life, however difficult, has to start anew?
As a survivor of four wars and other aggressions on Gaza, I feel the first day isn’t defined by politics, but is a deeply personal experience.
Today, I can’t think about politics, about whether Hamas or Fatah will claim victory. I can’t think about the decisions made in foreign capitals, or the promises of peace that have been broken too many times before. Today, I think of my life after the war, and how I will reclaim it from the rubble, like the Lebanese.
As the war continues on Gaza, I’m still not sure whether I’ll survive. The world outside seems distant, even though I know it’s holding its breath for some kind of resolution. The political stage is set: who will take charge, and who will lead Gaza into its next phase? Hamas or Fatah? Will Hamas maintain its grip? Will Fatah return to power? What comes next for Gaza?
The predictions come from every corner of the globe, but for me, there is only one thing that matters now: survival.
I think, the first day after war is a journey inwards, a slow, hesitant process of reconciling with the devastation that surrounds you, and the question of how to begin again.
The huge number of displaced Palestinians in the south will return to the north. The sounds of Takbir will fill the air of Gaza. The people who stay in the north will welcome the people who return from the south. The patriotic songs will fill the streets, and the people will hold Palestinian flags.
There will be no grand speeches. It will be, at least for me, an overwhelming sense of disorientation. The very earth will feel unsettled. The sky will no longer be filled with the sound of missiles and drones. We will wake to the sound of birds—an odd contrast to the terror that filled the air only days prior. Our houses, once a place of warmth, will stand broken, with windows shattered and walls crumbled. The sound of explosions will be replaced with an eerie stillness.
It will not be peace. It will simply be silence.
The first thing I would do is to visit my demolished home, then to rush to my grandparents’ and uncles’ house to greet them and hug them after long months of separation. I will search for anything of my clothes and books.
Later on, I will meet my friends Sara, Nadera, and Fatima who still remain in Gaza City. I will plan with others a visit to my university. I have to see if anything is left of my life before. The campus will be deserted. The lecture halls, once filled with friends, will be empty. The floor, once alive with conversations, will echo with the sound of my footsteps. I will run my hand over the remnants of the place that once held my dreams and shaped my future.
Next, I will visit the cemetery. The graves of the dead, of friends and strangers alike, speak a language that politics cannot touch. They do not care who rules Gaza tomorrow. For them, today is eternal, and I will stand in the shadow of their loss. I will place flowers on a grave I recognise. The weight of their absence is unbearable, and yet, it is also a reminder that we must continue.
I do not know who will lead Gaza tomorrow, but I know I must lead myself today. The simple acts of survival, like buying food, speaking to a neighbour, or walking through the city, feel like monumental tasks. How do you rebuild when everything has been reduced to rubble?
The answer, perhaps, lies in small steps. I rearrange my life—my priorities, my habits, my expectations. There will be no grand reset, but the need to move forward.
We know exactly what it means to survive the aftermath, to pick up the pieces of our lives amidst the ruins. We know what it’s like to walk through streets full of rubble, to feel the weight of the dead on our shoulders.
Lebanese survivors of the Israeli invasions, and countless other conflicts have witnessed this strange phenomenon. They celebrated survival and raised flags despite the devastation of their homes and buildings and their loss for loved ones. We watched how the Lebanese in the south welcomed the people who were in the north.
The first day after war is never easy. It is filled with the weight of grief, the burden of survival, and the uncertainty of what comes next. But it is also the first step toward something else—a future, however uncertain, that we must build. A future where we reclaim what has been lost, piece by piece, moment by moment. It’s not victory. It’s survival. And for now, that’s enough.
In the end, it will be about the quiet resilience of survivors—the ability to find meaning in the smallest of acts, to rebuild from the wreckage of our former lives, and to carry on despite the challenges.
Huda Skaik is an English literature student, a writer, and a video maker. She is a member of We Are Not Numbers, and she also a contributor for Electronic Intifada and WRMEA. She dreams of a future as a professor, professional poet, and writer.
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