The long walk back to find my home crushed, buried

This week the Guardian's reporter in Gaza packed her bag and headed back in search of her old life

- Malak A Tantesh Beit Lahia

When the ceasefire came there was a moment of relief that we had escaped death, although we still carry the sadness and pain of everything lost in those 15 months. Palestinians know that there are still more battles ahead. They have to keep fighting, in a war of daily suffering - the fight for water, for a loaf of bread - and a war against memories that bring pain to the heart and madness to the mind. Still, I woke up full of energy and excitement on Sunday, the day we had been told we could begin returning to the north. I knew the journey would be exhausting, walking long distances on broken roads crowded with other displaced people, but I was eager to return to my beloved home. I followed the news minute by minute, waiting for the announcement that the crossing would open. Instead, we got news that it would not happen. I went to bed that day thinking about all the people who had gone to the checkpoint early on Saturday night so they could be the first to return. Many had sold their tents to afford the journey back or even burned their tents out of the excitement that they were finally leaving behind life in those camps. So they had no shelter that night and slept in the freezing cold, waiting anxiously for the next morning, hoping their dreams would not be crushed again.

When the announcement came on Monday that the road was open, I felt I could have flown away with joy. We got dressed, packed our bags and drove as close to the checkpoint as we could get.

As we approached on foot, we were drawn into a crowd so big it felt like an endless river of humans.

If you looked back or forward, you could see only the same torrent of people trudging north.