Since the beginning of the war, work has become his life. Many of the people who were bombed were his neighbors, people he had grown up with.
Hatem Al-Attar, 25, was not married. His courage was not reckless or born of ignorance. He knew he could die at any moment.
“All the days of war from October 7 so far they have been difficult. Every second in this war was hard. You can lose your life, a loved one at any second,” says Hatem.
He is sitting in the civil defense office in Deir al-Balah with his comrades. They chat and check their phones. Every single one survived.
Ninety-four of their comrades were killed. More than 300 were wounded – almost half of the Gaza Civil Defense Organization.
For Hatem, death was as close as the explosion that knocked him off his feet in a house near Nasser Hospital.
“There were people injured and killed around the house,” he recalled.
“I went in to check if anyone was alive or dead. After I did, a reconnaissance missile hit the house.”
Footage taken by a colleague shows him striding into the building. A fire is burning to the left of the frame.
Then there's a loud explosion, clouds of smoke, a man swaying, but it's not Hatem.
His friends go back in and drag him out. He is coughing and needs to be held. But he survives.
Others close to him were not so lucky.
On March 14 last year – the start of Ramadan – he received a call at four in the morning from one of his brothers.
No one in Gaza, during the war, called at that time with good news.
“He told me that our house in al-Bureij was hit and my father was killed.”
Hatem went to Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Hospital in Deir al-Balah and met a family friend who directed him to the morgue.
“When I got there, my father was lying on the floor next to eight other bodies. They were my daughter-in-law and her seven children! I was in shock.”
Nevertheless, Hatem continued to walk towards the site of explosions, collapsing buildings, the rubble where the dead and sometimes the living were buried. He removed bodies and parts of bodies.
Then came the hour when the bombing and firing stopped.
The first night without airstrikes. Time to start thinking about something that wasn't guaranteed for the last 15 months – the future.
His thoughts turn to education and romance.
“After the deal, I have to think about what to do next. I will continue to study at the university after the universities start working again. I'm single, but I'm thinking about getting married.'
EPATo try to tell the story of how the people of Gaza have survived this war, BBC colleagues and I have relied on the tireless efforts of local journalists working on our behalf.
Israel ban foreign media from entering Gaza to report the war independently.
Local BBC journalists have been on the streets almost non-stop for the past 24 hours to capture the mood in Gaza during the truce: a gunman standing on a road in Nuseirat in central Gaza, firing into the air; Hamas fighters and police reappear; a few yards down the road another group of men shooting skyward; crowds gathering at intersections and corners; a man kneeling and kissing the ground.
But all this is happening against a background of ruin. Trucks and cars pass by, loaded with people's belongings. Some use donkey carts to haul the belongings that have survived their repeated moves.
There are hundreds of thousands of trips in Gaza today. Some are actually underway. Others exist in the imagination. All have one direction – home.
Professor Juma Abu Shiha arrives at the ruins of his house in Nuseirat.
First, he says the feeling of being a survivor is “indescribable.” He prayed to himself, “God is the best disposer of our affairs.”
He repeats this as he moves from one ruined room to another. His wife and several children follow.
The walls are blown away. The interior is pockmarked with machine gun fire and shrapnel.
Professor Abu Shiha describes how he built the house “block by block”, painted it and cherished the moment he brought his family to live here.
“I can't find a house, I only see destruction, but not a house,” he says. “I didn't expect this. I expected to go back to a house and find a place to shelter me and my children.”
He points to his daughters' room and his sons' room, so carefully decorated and now ravaged. “The feeling is indescribable,” he says.
There is a huge rebuilding task ahead. The UN and humanitarian agencies repeatedly accused Israel of impeding the flow of aid; The United States at one point threatened to cut military aid to Israel unless more aid was allowed to Gaza. Israel denies cutting aid.
Aid trucks passed through the strip throughout the afternoon. Among them was a convoy from the Jordanian Hashemite Charities, which we reported on last weekduring the trip from Amman to Gaza.
Forklifts moved tons of medicine and food to help the nearly two million displaced in Gaza – roughly 90% of the population.
Getty ImagesSuch help is tangible help. It can be weighed, counted, loaded and ultimately dispensed. People can be fed and medicated. But there is another challenge whose demands are enormous and which will have a profound impact on Gaza's future.
The war created an unknown number of traumatized adults and children. We have recorded some of their stories but are aware of tens of thousands more that remain unaccounted for.
Children face acute suffering. According to a survey of caregivers of 504 children, for British charity War Child96% of children believe that death is inevitable.
The interviews also found that 49% had a desire to die. Often our journalists have heard young survivors say they wish they could join a dead mother, father or sibling.
Ten-year-old Amr al-Hindi was the sole survivor of an Israeli strike on the building where he lived in Beit Lahiya last October. Our colleague from the area filmed Amr in hospital immediately after the attack.
The floor around him was covered with wounded. A woman was sitting with blood flowing from her ear. A man had just died nearby.
“Where's Sheriff?” Amr asked repeatedly. A nurse told him Sheriff was fine. “I'll take you upstairs to see him.” But his brother Sheriff did not survive. Not his other brother Ali, not his sister Asil, not his mother and father. The whole family was gone.
Just after the ceasefire was announced, we went back to see what had happened to Amr al-Hindi. He lived with his grandparents and it was clear that they loved him with care and tenderness. The child had three of his toes amputated after the attack, but managed to walk normally.
Amr sat on his grandfather's lap and stared straight into the camera. He was still and calm, as if he was watching from behind a thick protective screen. He started talking about his brother Ali and how he wanted to go to Jordan and study to be a doctor.
“I want to become like Ali. I want to fulfill his dream and travel to Jordan to become a doctor,” he said. But in the last few words tears began to fall and he burst into sobs.
Amr's grandfather kissed him on the cheek; he said “honey” and patted his chest.
At this point it goes without saying that there are a lot of wars going on here.
Some that are on hiatus. Others that for the survivors will live long into the future.
With additional reporting by Alice Doyard, Malaak Hassona and Adam Campbell.