Two years into a war that has upended all aspects of daily life, people in Gaza are not speaking of reconstructing their wrecked homes, but of rebuilding themselves, if that is even possible.
Amid the ruins of buildings, in the displacement camps and among broken families, a haunting question lingers in the air: What could possibly make up for what they have lost?
The answers, whispered in tents, windowless apartments and even in exile, reveal a truth that transcends the politics and reconstruction plans being discussed in ceasefire talks in Egypt.
For many survivors, no compensation, no rebuilding, and no peace agreement can restore what the two-year Gaza war has taken: the people they loved, the life they once knew, and the relative sense of safety.
In a temporary shelter in Deir Al Balah, Muneer Abu Jiab, 54, sits with his six children, trying to speak without bursting into tears.
“Honestly, there’s nothing that can ever make up for what we’ve lost in this war,” he tells The National.
“If it had only been about money or homes, we could say those things can be rebuilt. But what we lost are lives, our loved ones, our friends, and that can never be replaced.”
Mr Abu Jiab once lived in Al Shati refugee camp, a place that was full of joyful noise, children, and the bustle of life. Now, even if Gaza is rebuilt “more beautifully than before” Israel's war, he says, something will always be missing.
He lost his uncle, the uncle's wife, and their children, along with many neighbours and friends. Every evening, as all goes quiet in the camp, their faces come to mind.
“There will always be a void,” Mr Abu Jiab says quietly. “Our only hope now is that the killing stops, that the war finally ends. Maybe with time, we’ll learn to live again, to raise our children in better conditions, to give them a life they deserve.”
Ibrahim Al Muqayed, 26, who lived at Jabalia refugee camp, is still displaced in Al Mawasi. He speaks with a mix of weariness and fragile hope.
“Maybe if life returns, if Gaza is rebuilt, the crossings reopen, and we live better days, we might be able to forget a little of the catastrophe we’ve lived through,” he tells The National. “But nothing can ever make up for what we’ve lost.”
His family survived, but like many others, they carry invisible scars. “After everything we witnessed, the horror, the blood, the fear, we tell ourselves that those we lost are in a better place, that maybe death was a mercy for them,” Mr Al Muqayed says.
He dreams of returning to northern Gaza, rebuilding his home and starting life anew, perhaps even marrying, if peace comes. But he also understands that repairing walls is not the same as rebuilding hearts.
“This war is not only about death,” he says. “It’s the destruction of everything, love, joy, life itself. It shattered the human soul in a way words can’t describe. Maybe if we could rebuild people’s souls, not just the buildings, things could be better.”
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For Maram Abu Hazaa, 32, from Jabalia, the answer is clear: nothing can make up for the losses.
She and her husband now live in a tent in Al Nuseirat, where she tries to comfort her three children who have been out of school for two years.
“Many times, I ask myself: what could ever make up for everything that’s happened?” she tells The National. “Sometimes I think maybe if we could leave this country and live a stable life abroad, we might recover a little. But the psychological pain after all the death and destruction can never be healed.”
Her children, once bright and eager, now struggle to focus.
“They’ve lost two academic years,” Ms Abu Hazaa says. “When I think about that, I feel like I’m losing my mind. This isn’t just a setback, it’s a loss of their future.”
She describes the daily hardship of tent life, the heat, the dirt, the lack of privacy. “It’s been two years of humiliation and exhaustion,” she says with a sigh. “Maybe if the war ends, and life slowly returns, we can rebuild a small part of what we’ve lost. Maybe then my children will have a chance.”
For Noor Abu Jaser, 28, the idea of rebuilding means nothing. From her temporary refuge in Egypt, she speaks in the past tense of family, home, and belonging.
“In this war, I lost my father, my mother, and three of my sisters along with all their children,” she tells The National. “In the blink of an eye, they were gone. That’s a loss that can never, ever be compensated for.”
Noor was at work when the family home in northern Gaza was bombed at the start of the war. Everyone inside was killed.
“Only two of my brothers and I survived,” she says softly. “After months, I left Gaza. Everything was available where I went – food, safety – but nothing could make up for that loss.”
Even now, surrounded by stability, her memories remain vivid.
“People say that time makes you forget,” she says. “But this kind of loss, you never forget. In every step I take, I remember how I said goodbye to my loved ones, and that I’ll never see them again.”
Her voice trembles as she adds, “We’ll never be able to heal the fractures this war left inside us. We’ll never make up for what these two terrible years have done to us, not emotionally, not socially, not spiritually.”
For the people of Gaza, rebuilding means more than clearing rubble and reopening borders. It means learning to live with permanent loss, to raise children among memories of horror, to rebuild trust in life itself.
Two years on, many survivors say they are still caught between mourning and trying to survive, with the future uncertain.
“Maybe one day, we’ll find a way to live again,"Mr Abu Jiab says. “But the people we lost, they’re gone forever. No reconstruction can bring them back.”
