I woke up one morning in July to a flurry of messages lighting up my phone. Every news channel, every social media post, every conversation buzzed with cautious optimism. “Negotiations progressing well”, the headlines declared. “Truce imminent”, “Massive aid convoy preparing to enter”.At that moment, we were deep in the throes of famine; some days, we ate nothing at all. You can imagine the cautious joy that flickered in our hearts, the way hope travelled through our messages. Friends wrote to me, their words trembling with tentative relief. “Could this really be the end?” one asked. “Will we remember what safety feels like? Will there finally be bread?”We dared to dream. We imagined the silence of ceasefire, the taste of warm bread, the comfort of a full meal. Some shops tentatively reopened. Prices dipped slightly. For the first time in months, bread seemed almost within reach. For a fleeting moment, life seemed to return to the streets.In Gaza, even the most battered communities breathe differently when hope appears – even if it is for a few hours.My neighbour – a war widow raising seven children alone, including an infant who cries endlessly from hunger – told me how her children weep from empty stomachs while …
