In a disheartening turn of events, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has suggested delaying the second phase of the Gaza ceasefire agreement, citing unmet conditions regarding the release of Israeli captives by Palestinian resistance group Hamas.

This decision has led to the suspension of critical humanitarian aid to Gaza, worsening an already dire situation for its residents. According to international reports, food and medical supplies have been drastically reduced, leaving many Palestinians in Gaza in desperate need, yet diplomatic negotiations remain at an impasse.

I am one of 100,000 Palestinians displaced in Egypt since last year. Although I’m able to continue pursuing my dental studies here, this political manoeuvring nonetheless deepens my anguish.

The first phase of the ceasefire had kindled a fragile hope—a possibility of returning to our homeland and reuniting with our families. However, the current stalemate extinguishes that hope, prolonging our separation and the uncertainty that shrouds our future.

The reality of exile is an existence marked by relentless longing and the heavy burden of isolation. Each day away from Gaza is a day steeped in memories of a home that now feels achingly distant. The suspension of the ceasefire’s progression not only delays our physical return but also erodes our emotional resilience, as we grapple with the reality that political decisions continue to dictate the rhythms of our lives.

Talking shops

This latest delay has been met with criticism from multiple world leaders. The United Nations has called for an urgent resumption of humanitarian aid, warning that civilians should not be used as bargaining chips in political negotiations.

This week Arab League leaders have met to discuss alternative paths forward, and also condemned Israel’s blockade, urging Western governments to apply pressure on Netanyahu’s administration to move forward with the truce. Yet, as we have seen time and again, these statements hold little weight when it comes to tangible actions that could end our suffering.

While politicians strategise, we remain in limbo, helplessly watching as days, months, and now years of our lives are stolen from us. Families remain fragmented, with loved ones separated by borders and bureaucratic impasses.

The cessation of aid exacerbates the suffering of those still in Gaza, while those of us in displacement confront the despair of prolonged exile. Our aspirations for normalcy, for the simple joy of familial bonds, are continually deferred by geopolitical manoeuvres that regard our lives as mere collateral.

During the first phase of the ceasefire, I allowed myself to dream again. I pictured stepping onto the familiar streets of Gaza, seeing my family’s faces not through the cold filter of a phone screen but in the warmth of real life. I imagined reunions filled with laughter, not hurried, fragmented conversations over unreliable internet connections. But as the political landscape shifts once again, so too does my ability to hope.

Diplomatic failures

The consequences of these diplomatic failures extend far beyond just those of us displaced. In Gaza, the humanitarian crisis continues to deepen. With every passing day, hospitals collapse under the weight of an unrelenting blockade, and malnutrition claims the lives of innocent children.

Although there has been a pause in fighting, remember there are few standing homes in Gaza, and most are still forced to survive in overcrowded shelters without adequate food, water, or medical care. As the ceasefire negotiations stall, so too do efforts to rebuild shattered homes, schools, and hospitals.

International expectations to end this conflict have largely been rhetorical. At the height of the war we saw Joe Biden’s administration expressing support for a ceasefire yet continuing to supply Israel with military aid, a contradiction that highlights the hypocrisy of global diplomacy.

European leaders have urged a permanent resolution but have done little beyond issuing statements of concern. It remains to be seen how this week's Arab summit will tangibly impact the situation on the ground. So far, all we’ve seen is diplomatic deadlock that leaves civilians—people like me—trapped between politics and survival.

Stolen childhoods and empty chairs

Displacement is not just about losing a home. It is about losing time. It is about birthdays missed, childhoods stolen, people passing away before goodbyes can be said. It is about knowing that while the world debates policies and strategies, there are empty chairs at dinner tables that may never be filled again.

In Egypt, fellow displaced Palestinians and I mark yet another Ramadan in exile. This month, once a time of warmth and family gatherings, has become a painful reminder of loss and separation. We sit at our iftar tables, but the empty seats echo the absence of those we left behind—those who should be here, laughing with us, filling the space with life. 

The human cost of this political game is incalculable. My neighbours—mothers, fathers, children—all share a common wound: the deep, unhealed scar of loss and displacement.

While international observers and diplomats debate policies and strategies, we experience the tangible pain of waiting—waiting for a border to open, waiting for our families to be reunited, and waiting for a peace that feels increasingly elusive.

Despite the recurring disappointments, there remains a stubborn ember of resilience. In the midst of uncertainty, we continue to dream. We whisper promises to one another that one day, these borders will no longer divide us, that political maneuvers will cease to dictate the rhythm of our lives.

Our hope, though battered, remains unbroken. It is a hope not born of political assurances, but of a deep-rooted belief in the power of human connection and the unyielding desire to reclaim what was once lost.