A truce without peace : Gaza’s Kafkaesque trial

THE war in West Asia has at last yielded a truce. Relief and gratitude accompany the hope that the guns have fallen silent and lives may begin to be rebuilt. Yet, alongside this cautious celebration, scepticism persists considering what happened on October 15. Temporary cessations of violence often mask unresolved grievances and structural injustices. The question remains whether this truce will endure.

I cannot help but think of those six friends waking to the fragile dawn of a peace that wasn't real, believing the genocide was over, that perhaps the long night had finally lifted. They walked through the eastern suburb of Gaza City, searching for what had once been their homes, only to find them reduced to rubble, their memories turned to dust. And then, as if the world itself denied them even the small mercy of survival, a blast tore through the morning's silence and they were gone.

For me, the scene embodies the cruel absurdity of the conflict, where even the hope of peace had become a death sentence. The strike in Gaza after the declaration of ceasefire, which killed six Palestinians, was followed by retaliation. Hamas gunmen killed nine Israelis in the street. The symmetry of violence, blow for blow, body for body, defines a region where justice is deferred and humanity lies in ruins.

My elegy is not for the dead, but for the living, the ones condemned to remember. Mothers cradle photographs of sons who will not return; fathers dig with bare hands for glimpses of familiar garments. To grow up amid ruins is to inherit grief and the discipline of endurance. And yet, amid the dust, courage persists, as seen in a teacher gathering children under a broken awning; a doctor refusing to abandon his post despite power loss. These acts do not change the world but confront its collapse.

Meanwhile, the world watches in weary repetition. Statements of outrage, appeals for restraint and polished diplomatic phrases continue their familiar acts of manipulation. Still, despair cannot be total. Gaza's people find ways to affirm life: they write poetry in the shadows, send messages through interrupted networks and turn mourning into testimony. Each surviving story, each image of a mother's embrace, indicts the silence that engulfs the world. Their very visibility becomes an act of rebellion.

In the centennial year of Kafka's 'The Trial', the vision of existence under absurd and disciplinary authority is uncannily farsighted. Gaza exists in an uninterrupted state of judgment without justice, a labyrinth where every road leads back to suffering and a long wait. The notion of peace becomes surreal, a word worn away by repetition. And yet, the stubborn will to narrate and bear witness to the unending pain continues. The conflict descends into an abyss of suffering, accentuated by a moral reckoning that the global community seems reluctant to confront. Each explosion and retaliatory strike perpetuates a cycle of violence that defies logic. In this context, Kafka's notion of the "logic of the absurd" seems disconcertingly relevant. The conflict takes on a life of its own, driven by a bureaucratic machinery that prioritises power and control over human life and dignity.

Even as the war pauses, the trial continues. What Kafka imagined in 'The Trial', a machinery of accusation outliving the crime, now finds its faithful stage in the uneasy peace that follows, outlasting the transgression it purports to resolve. Bombs have fallen silent, but the bureaucracy of control moves faster. Drone echoes replace the shuffle of papers, the vigilant management of despair. The drumbeats of war fade, but their resonance lingers at turnpikes.

The trial Kafka envisioned, where guilt is assumed and justice eternally postponed, has for decades been inflicted upon Palestine. Even now, as the world hails the ceasefire, Gaza is not acquitted but doomed to a different sentence. Peace here becomes not an end but an unbending hiatus, a technical reset of occupation. As in 'The Trial', fear endures here, disguised as protocol, enforced through bureaucracy measures rather than missiles.

It unmistakably follows that the West Asia conflict exposes the limitations of conventional approaches to peace. Repeated ceasefires and humanitarian aid have failed to address the root causes of the issue. The language of peace processes continues to mask the reality on the ground, where bureaucratic measures are mistaken for progress. The apparatus of control, including permits, ration cards and border restrictions, remains in place, albeit under the guise of stability — in reality, an act of domination.

This approach prioritises short-term calm over long-term justice and sovereignty, leaving the underlying issues unresolved. True peace requires a commitment to unravelling the conditions that perpetuate the conflict. Trump and his allies may claim credit for the quiet of the guns, yet the ceasefire has not destroyed the trials; it has archived them, allowing authority to settle into the daily routine.

The tragedy of situations like Palestine is exacerbated by the international community's tacit complicity. Terms like "security", "self-defence" and "peace process" have lost their meaning, becoming mere justifications for policies that prioritise control over human rights. This phenomenon echoes the themes of Franz Kafka's works, where bureaucratic red tape serves to oppress and disempower individuals.

Meanwhile, Gaza will endure. Poets will write again, mothers mend, children trace names on walls that may fall once more. And still, I return in thought to those six friends. They are the human pulse of a city reduced to ashes. Their ordinary desire to see the world return to normal ended in a single, cruel instant. Their story lingers as a testament to the fragility of life under occupation, to the absurdity of a world that calls a truce ‘peace’ while the machinery of suffering marches on. Remembering them challenges us to see beyond rhetoric and confront the true cost of violence in Gaza and beyond.

Shelley Walia is former professor, Panjab University, Chandigarh.