'Every day, I wish I could die': In Gaza, survivors battle the long-term effects of war trauma amid a fragile ceasefire

Gaza's air is thick with dust and smoke, nights are haunted by drones, and the ceasefire deal, which went into effect on October 10, 2025, hangs by a thread over the Strip.

What was meant to be a moment of relief has instead turned into despair, as tens of thousands of Palestinians returning to the ruins of their homes are forced to endure unbearable conditions — searching desperately for water and bread while anxiously awaiting news of family members who have vanished amid the rubble.

These daily struggles not only reflect the catastrophic impact of Israel's two-year genocide, which has killed over 70,000 people, destroyed or damaged 80 percent of Gaza's buildings, and displaced 1.7 million, but also show that, despite the ceasefire, Israel's violations continue.

Essential aid and services remain severely restricted, and violence persists, with at least 327 people — including 136 children — killed since the truce was announced.

But post-ceasefire, Israel's violations have extended beyond the immediate and visible damage.

"During Israel's genocide, people coped by avoiding what had happened to them," Arwa al-Sakafi, a therapist, tells The New Arab.

She describes a new kind of war that has followed the genocide — a battle with trauma and its long-term effects.

"Palestinians threw themselves into survival roles — searching for food and water, staying busy just to stay alive. But when the ceasefire came, people fell into depression. A bit of stability reopened old wounds; they started remembering places and people they had lost. Everything became clearer."

Yet, as Arwa stresses, this brief pause in violence has not ended the struggle for survival. Although therapy, once stigmatised, has slowly become more accepted, the conditions for healing remain almost impossible.

"Now, everyone acknowledges the need for psychological support," she says. "But the challenge is that we still lack the most basic necessities: food, water, and safety."

Healing, she adds, is temporary, and trauma is ongoing. "In many cases, we return to square one because we're still living under war conditions — there's still bombing, and homes continue to collapse."

Recent research mirrors what Arwa observes. A WHO-EMRO narrative review, for example, shows that years of recurring violence in Gaza have produced complex PTSD and severe intergenerational distress, with trauma passed through families both psychologically and biologically.

The review also notes that even brief pauses in bombardment can unearth buried memories, forcing people to relive experiences they once suppressed to survive.

Resilience in action

Weighing in on the impact of the genocide on Gaza's residents, psychosocial support specialist Amany Baroud spoke about the different forms of resilience she has witnessed in the Strip.

Speaking about what she calls spiritual resilience, she noted, "From my conversations, especially with women, I've found that spiritual resilience comes from endurance and determination — the will to survive and keep resisting."

On material resilience, she says, "It's everywhere: when flour ran out, people turned to barley and wild grains; when electricity failed, they relied on solar power; and when hospitals were destroyed, makeshift medical centres were set up."

She added that resilience is also a form of creativity, saying, "When the bombing began, I wrote a book, learned embroidery, and devoted myself to reading."

Amany emphasised that in Gaza, there are no exits, no safe zones, and displacement is constant. Yet what stands out most to her is the persistence of life — the remarkable ability to rebuild again and again, every time something is destroyed, to survive, to endure, and to exist.

This, she explained, is what is called emotional endurance, which often relies on community networks, shared mourning rituals, and faith-based routines. 

She also highlighted the unseen labour of mothers, who comfort their children despite their own fear.

"Many mothers give their children strength while they themselves are afraid; even psychologists aren't immune, as we absorb the same pain. I practice self-care through exercise, walking, and writing — small acts that help me breathe amidst the devastation," she explains.

Recovery in a world of loss

Reflecting on her experiences during the genocide, 25-year-old Ayat al-Harazin began therapy for the first time, a step she says changed the way she managed her trauma.

"When a warplane fired near me, or shrapnel hit close, I didn't feel anything," she recalls.

"No fear, no panic, and no emotion. My friend told me that's not normal and that I needed to see a psychologist."

Her breaking point came when her brother disappeared while evacuating to the south. His fate remains unknown, but through therapy, Ayat says she began to process her emotions.

"My psychologist helped me understand how I think and feel, and to keep asking why I react the way I do," she explains.

Elaborating further, she noted that the last displacement nearly broke her, saying, "We stayed for weeks in Zaytoun and Sabra under constant threat. If the ceasefire hadn't come, we would have been among the dead. The pressure kept building until I completely relapsed. I even began to feel something strange — that I no longer wanted to recover or to keep going."

Still, therapy remains an anchor for Ayat.

"The sessions help lessen the pain," she says. "Sometimes they're my only source of comfort. But when the events never stop, you feel like you're drowning in despair. All the coping techniques you've learned suddenly seem useless."

Like Ayat, 35-year-old Dalia Al-Sawaf turned to therapy when survival alone was no longer enough.

She began sessions for the first time in 2019, after enduring the heavy psychological toll of earlier Israeli escalations in Gaza.

"But those wars were nothing compared to this cursed one," she says, her voice heavy with emotion.

She adds that during the first ceasefire, she returned to therapy because of the displacement. She had evacuated to the south with her three-month-old baby, while her husband stayed in the north. 

The responsibility was overwhelming, and when the war resumed, she suffered a relapse. She had been taking medication alongside therapy, but eventually had to stop, because the medicines were no longer available.

"People used to view therapy as something shameful," she explains. "Now, it is normal. There are so many cases at the clinic — mostly women and children — because, honestly, it provides comfort, a safe space, and it's free."

She continues, "My son, who's two and a half, is the reason I keep going. He gives me life. He's my therapy."

As for 24-year-old Diana Hadad, a mother of two, therapy became a lifeline after her loss. She began sessions shortly after losing her husband, needing someone simply to listen.

"There's no one else to take responsibility for my daughters but me," she says. "The mental pressure, the financial pressure — it all falls on my shoulders. I have to be both mother and father. What I truly needed was psychological support."

Yet for many, therapy isn't even an option. Samir, 62, who preferred not to share his full name, dreams of speaking to a psychologist but cannot.

"Life is too hard," he says quietly. "And our traditions don't allow it. What would people say if I shared my personal struggles?"

Unfortunately, Samir has lost his wife, one of his daughters, two sons, and two grandsons, and he pleads with a heavy heart, "Every day, I wish I could die."

Surviving the endless

Not knowing how long it will take to restore mental health in Gaza, especially with psychologists working with almost no resources, and patients carrying grief that never entirely leaves them, one truth is clear: therapy and trauma exist side by side, with neither ever truly ending.

Healing, however, is not a destination. It is something people return to again and again, even as life continues under the weight of a loss that seems impossible to measure.

Reflecting on this resilience, Amany says, "There are stories that shake your soul, yet the people telling them keep going."

Malak Hijazi is a writer from Gaza