"Now that it’s over, we can finally cry”: On Gaza’s postponed grief

For Gazans, postponing grief and mourning has become a collective phenomenon shared by those who have experienced loss—which now includes everyone in Gaza. There is no one in the besieged enclave who hasn’t lost a family member, relative, friend, job, home, street, or even a limb. Many have also endured a deeper, intangible loss that caused them to lose their way of thinking about the world and reshaped their belief in humanity.

Over the past year, Gazans have come to the bitter realization that they did not have time to mourn, and had been waiting for the war to end before they could grieve. For over 470 days, death in Gaza was only followed by more death, with no pause or reprieve. The people barely had enough time to struggle for their survival, secure their basic needs under a famine and imposed siege, and protect the loved ones they had left.

For Gazans, postponing grief and mourning has become a collective phenomenon shared by those who have experienced loss—which now includes everyone in Gaza. There is no one in the besieged enclave who hasn’t lost a family member, relative, friend, job, home, street, or even a limb.

The struggle for survival

Mohammed Jalal, a man in his thirties, remains silent about the pain of his loss. Like many Gazans, he was waiting for the war to end before he began mourning his father, grandmother, and aunt, all of whom he lost in a single Israeli airstrike on their home in the Nuseirat refugee camp in central Gaza.

"After surviving the bombing of our home, I now carry the title ‘survivor’ with the few of my family members who remain. To me, this is more difficult than if I had died with them," Mohammed tells Raseef22.

"After the final farewell, there was no wake, memorial service, or condolence gathering as is customary in mourning rituals here. In times of genocide, mourning becomes a rushed funeral prayer, performed quickly for fear of another strike,” he adds. “Mass graves are dug hastily, and survivors are left with other tasks, existential tasks that leave no room for grief."

Mohammed was injured in the airstrike, and his mother was critically wounded.

"I faced another battle for survival: ensuring my mother’s recovery, finding shelter in a tent or displacement center, and waiting in endless lines for water and food," he explains.

Over the past year, Gazans have come to the bitter realization that they did not have time to mourn, and had been waiting for the war to end before they could grieve. For over 470 days, death in Gaza was only followed by more death, with no pause or reprieve.

The cost of survival in Gaza is unbearably high. Mohammed says it comes at a steep price. He lost his home, family, and many friends. He also lost his livelihood.

"My heart ached every day from the loss, but I couldn’t cry or break down. Time and the suffocating tension of the moment was gripping us all. As a Gazan, I felt trapped in a whirlwind of emotions—helplessness, frustration, denial, and a refusal to accept reality.

“At the same time, I had been living in constant anticipation of death to take me at any moment, just like everyone else here. This is the price we pay for staying alive."

"I kept thinking, perhaps I’m going to be the next loss," he recalls.

He says the nights were the worst, lying in the dark with his thoughts, accompanied only by the sound of explosions and the ever-present roar of Israeli warplanes over the city. He constantly battled with himself, trying not to think of everyone and everything he lost so he wouldn’t break down at a time when he should be focusing on his family’s survival.

As he speaks, Mohammed glances at the watch on his left wrist, reminding me that it’s nearly time to recharge one of their batteries at a local charging station. There is no electricity in the entire strip, and so he’s in a hurry to avoid spending the night in pitch darkness.

Grieving collectively

Psychology describes the delayed grief—or post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)—that Mohammed and others in Gaza have been experiencing as a type of postponed sorrow, where people momentarily avoid dealing with their loss. They may convince themselves that the needs of others are more pressing than their own, focusing instead on caring for those around them. However, this is merely an attempt to avoid their own painful emotions, due to the sudden loss they’ve faced, which creates feelings of shock, numbness, and an inability—consciously or unconsciously—to process or address their grief immediately.

Mohammed constantly battled with himself, trying not to think of everyone and everything he lost so he wouldn’t break down at a time when he should be focusing on his family’s survival.

Delayed grief typically unfolds in five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. However, psychology also acknowledges that not everyone experiences all five stages, and the grieving process varies for each individual.

While speaking to Raseef22, psychologist and counselor Afaf Murshid explains that “grief in Gaza is not an individual experience, but a collective one. The loss is not limited to human life; it is a loss across multiple dimensions—lives, homes, finances, food, and water.”

“The people of Gaza have been in a constant struggle for survival amidst a war raging against every aspect of their lives,” she notes. “They could not afford to take time for grief, as they are in a continuous state of loss.”

Murshid sees that this constant state has prevented people from having the time or space to grieve, cry, vent, or break down. Even when a moment for grief did appear, it was brief compared to the natural mourning period that people need in order to comprehend and process the loss.

"The people of Gaza have been too busy surviving," she says. “Only now will they be able to begin the process properly.”

Murshid points out that, during the war, when a Gazan loses a family member or a loved one, they are preoccupied with practical matters, such as gathering their torn remains, arranging for the burial, finding a shroud, transporting the body, pulling their body out from under the rubble, or providing medical care if a family member is injured in the same strike. In these moments, grief must be postponed.

“The people of Gaza have been in a constant struggle for survival amidst a war raging against every aspect of their lives. They could not afford to take time for grief, as they are in a continuous state of loss.”

The consequences of a grief delayed

“People do not follow a unified timing for grief. Many subconsciously delayed it until after the war ended. Some find that even when the war is over, the delayed grief doesn't surface,” Murshid adds. “However, after weeks or months, there may be a moment when the stored-up grief erupts, and they begin their journey of recovery from the harsh experience of loss, which is called post-traumatic stress."

Explaining the difference between immediate and delayed grief, she says that "immediate grief happens closely in response to the separation and can come in waves, either closely or distantly spaced.

“On the other hand, in delayed grief, the person is distracted with something else, like work or urgent life tasks."

Murshid advises every bereaved person to allow themselves to feel their grief and not suppress their emotions.

“For a Gazan, focusing on survival acts as a painkiller. However, later on, individuals may experience bouts of depression, heart disease, high blood pressure, as well as excessive anxiety, stress, and repeated irritability."

Working and surviving through a genocide while losing loved ones

"We have no time for grief, isolation, or retreating into ourselves, not even for a moment, or to even feel that we are human beings with emotions," comments Gazan journalist Roba al-Ajrami on the loss her colleague, Seif el-Switi, experienced after his little girl was killed during the war.

In an Instagram post put up by Roba in December, a photo taken by one of his colleagues in the field shows Seif holding his baby girl, covered with a white shroud, moments before he buried her.

"This friend is now out on the field, and just moments ago, he was burying his daughter,” Roba says. “It seems that the deadly Israeli war machine has reached her too, and she came out a martyr from her mother's womb."

Minutes after the burial, Seif put on his armor and helmet and stood before the camera in a live broadcast, documenting the massacres and atrocities haunting Gazans everywhere.

Perhaps most Gazans share a similar belief that offers them some semblance of comfort: the belief that their loved ones are martyrs, having left fear, death, destruction, cold, hunger, and siege behind for a better place.

"I feel proud to be the sister of a martyr, despite the immense pain inside me because of his loss," says thirty-year-old Maha Shahwan, speaking about the loss of her brother, Harith.

"After the final farewell, there was no wake, memorial service, or condolence gathering as is customary in mourning rituals here. In times of genocide, mourning becomes a rushed funeral prayer, performed quickly for fear of another strike. Mass graves are dug hastily, and survivors are left with other tasks, existential tasks that leave no room for grief."

Maha had left the Gaza Strip for Egypt before the Rafah Crossing was shut. She decided to escape with her husband, but she lived with the struggle of exile every moment she was there, caught between the virtual limbo of her absence and presence. On the one hand, she worried about her family being left behind to face death in Gaza, but, on the other hand, she was experiencing the loneliness of not having anyone to comfort her, as she puts it.

"When I heard about my brother's martyrdom, I didn’t know what to do. I felt a great sense of helplessness—should I scream, cry, or collapse? What would be the point?” she laments. “And how could grief bring my brother back? I fainted in that moment without showing any reaction or making any noise."

That day, Maha spent her time receiving condolences over the phone and through messages from friends in Gaza and Egypt.

"Then I went back to life and became preoccupied with my work. Despite this outward continuation, I felt cold, oppressed, and in pain inside, and I kept my grief postponed until I could return to Gaza and my 'escape' ended. I promised myself I would visit my brother’s grave and embrace it in my arms, since I never had the chance for a proper farewell," she says.

The hardest thing Maha, as a journalist, experienced was publishing the news of the attack without knowing that the victim was her brother. He was among those intentionally targeted during an attempt to get a bag of flour.

Now that the war has ended, Gazans are finally able to confront the grief they have long postponed, with the ceasefire coming into effect last week and as tens of thousands returned, by foot, back to their destroyed homes on Monday, January 27. Many are beginning to mourn the loss of loved ones, homes, and their way of life, as they attempt to put their lives back together—or whatever is left of them—while facing the long-overdue sorrow they’ve held in abeyance for so long.