The war may be officially paused but for residents of the Gaza Strip the sense of danger has not lifted.
Air strikes, gunfire and sudden attacks by Israel continue to shape daily life, turning routine moments – walking to the market, going to work, sending children to school – into calculated risks.
In Deir Al Balah in central Gaza, Muath Mousa has adjusted his entire routine around fear. “For the past two weeks, I’ve decided not to leave the tent more than once a day,” he told The National.
Mr Mousa supports a household of seven. The fear of leaving them behind shapes every decision.
“You’re afraid while walking in the street … afraid even while standing and buying something,” he said. “You think 'what if something happens to me? What will happen to my family?'”
A ceasefire last October put the brakes on Israel's campaign but did not stop it altogether. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu admitted at the weekend that Israeli troops were quietly expanding the so-called yellow line marking out the boundaries of their occupied territory.
Gaza's civil defence spokesman Mahmoud Basal said rescue workers respond every day to “attacks on homes, tents, streets, everywhere people are”. He said 877 people have been killed and more than 2,600 injured during the ceasefire. “People are extremely tired,” Mr Basal said. “They need a real break from the war.”
For civilians, survival now depends on limiting exposure to danger. The danger is not abstract. Strikes take place across the strip, particularly in areas near the yellow line, where violence has intensified. The result is a shrinking space for normal life.
“After losing our homes and our previous lives, now we are being deprived of movement itself,” Mr Mousa says.
Shattered in seconds
For some, even attempts to rebuild have been met with violence.
In Gaza city, Ayman Al Shoubaki and his family had started a small business, a phone-charging and internet point, hoping to create a source of income amid widespread destruction.
But that enterprise was shattered in seconds. One afternoon, their workplace was attacked by a missile, he said. The area was crowded at the time.
His father and brother were injured, along with eight others nearby.
“The attacks are very alarming,” Mr Al Shoubaki told The National. “People are afraid to go out into the streets.”
The strike reflects a broader pattern, residents say, in which even civilian spaces are not spared. “We thought the war had ended,” Mr Al Shoubaki said. “But it feels like it hasn’t.”
For many, the most difficult part is the unpredictability. In Sheikh Radwan, Mahmoud Barhoum describes a life defined by near misses and constant anxiety. “I go out to get food and water with my heart in my hands,” he said.
The fear extends to his children, who attend a nearby school. “I stay worried until they come back,” he said, “even though it’s close.”
Recently, Mr Barhoum narrowly avoided an air strike. “I was in a place five minutes before it was hit,” he said. “Only minutes separated me from death.” Since then, his family has urged him to leave home only in emergencies.
That sense of vulnerability is widespread. Residents say there is no longer any clear distinction between safe and unsafe areas. “If things continue like this, the slow death toll will keep rising,” Mr Barhoum said. “People can no longer feel safe.”
Despite the official pause in large-scale fighting, the continuation of strikes has blurred the meaning of ceasefire for many Gazans.
Daily life remains disrupted. Movement is restricted not by official orders alone, but by fear. Economic activity is fragile. Efforts to rebuild, even small, personal ones are easily undone.
For those on the ground, the reality is simple: the violence never truly stopped.
