we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
To be Palestinian is to carry the weight of lost villages, to inherit a history that is scattered across borders.
A traffic sign at one of the exits from Ain Al-Hilweh refugee camp, showing the distance to Jerusalem, 197 km. Photo: Younis Abdallah
I was born in the city of Sidon, one of the coastal areas on the Mediterranean Sea in Lebanon. Sidon, known as the gateway to the south, is no different from any coastal city in Palestine. Like Haifa, like Jaffa, it is a place where the sea meets ancient stone and narrow streets lead to bustling markets. The old buildings here, with their arches and weathered walls, are a historical treasure — an authentic part of Lebanese heritage that the people here cherish. And I cherish it, too. I can’t help it; I see pieces of Palestine in Sidon’s stones, in the smell of the sea, in the way the light filters down through narrow alleyways.
Many Palestinians have resided in Sidon for 75 years, since the Nakba, or great displacement, in 1948. The vast majority of Palestinians reside in Ain Al-Hilweh. The name refers to the freshwater present when it was built, and it is Lebanon’s largest refugee camp, where life spills into the streets. The camp is a city within a city, developed layer by layer over decades as children were born, families flourished, and hopes were both nurtured and restricted behind its walls.
I live just outside Ain Al-Hilweh, in one of the surrounding neighborhoods, but I’ve spent countless days there with family and friends, feeling its pulse, sensing its weight. And every time I pass by that sign at one of the camp’s gates — Jerusalem, 197 km — I feel a pull deep in my chest. It’s as if the sign is reminding me, reminding all of us, that it’s so close. Remember that distance, it seems to say, just 197 km. But in reality, it’s a distance that feels endless. What should be a few hours’ drive has stretched across decades, across entire lives.
Sometimes I stand there, looking at that sign, and I can’t help but imagine the journey. I picture myself walking those 197 km, as if I could close the gap by sheer will alone. But it’s not a simple path. That road, that distance, is filled with obstacles — walls and checkpoints, borders and politics, generations of history and struggle. It’s as if the road to Jerusalem winds through the heart of every Palestinian in exile, carrying with it the weight of all that has been lost and all that we hold onto.
Standing there, looking at that sign, I think of my grandparents, who once walked the streets of Haifa, of Acre. They would have known the exact distance from those cities to Jerusalem. They knew the area not in kilometers, but in walks, in farms and olive groves. Now, for us, that distance has been transformed into a number on a sign — a reminder of a place we may never reach. And yet, knowing how close it is, only 197 km away, gives me a strange sense of hope. It serves as a reminder that Palestine is not a fable or a story passed down through generations. It is a real location, just on the other side of that long, winding road.
It’s difficult to grow up with so many common customs and to live side by side with the Lebanese yet always feeling separated by something as small as a piece of paper. I know families who have been here for years, whose children speak the Lebanese dialect as naturally as their neighbors, who celebrate the same holidays and sing the same songs — and yet, because they have a blue ID, they are constantly reminded that they are “other.”
The cover of a travel document for Palestinian refugees. Photo: Younis Abdallah
This reality has a significant impact on the lives of Palestinian youth in Lebanon. It influences our hopes, dreams, and even our perception of who we are and what we are permitted to aim for. I see it in my own family, in my siblings, as we each strive to navigate the world in our own unique manner. My sensible and determined brother talks about leaving and seeking a future that Lebanon will not allow him to have. My sister, who is quieter but no less resolute, insists on staying and building a life here, no matter how difficult it is.
And me? I find myself somewhere in the middle. I’m not sure if I’ll stay or leave, if I’ll find my place here or elsewhere in this land that has served as both home and exile. But I know I want to share our stories, write about our lives and the obstacles we face. I want people to see us as more than just refugees or numbers, but as individuals with dreams, roots, and complex identities.
Those Palestinians did not forget their origins. Our history teacher once asked us if we knew where we came from, which village or city our families belonged to. I was in the seventh grade at a school called Deir Al-Qasi, after a Palestinian Arab village located in the far northeast of Acre. Like most UNRWA schools in Lebanon, it bore the name of a Palestinian village — a reminder of places that still exist in memory, even if we’ve never seen them.
Deir Al-Qasi School. Photo: Younis Abdallah
One by one, my classmates answered without hesitation. There was the boy who said, “Acre,” with pride in his voice, like he was claiming a birthright. Another one said, “Nablus,” her voice steady, as if she’d always known. Someone else said, “Jaffa.” Some named villages I had never heard of, villages that must have been small and hidden among the hills, passed down only through family stories. Each name held weight, a connection to a homeland most of us had never set foot in. Each answer was like a thread, connecting us all back to a place we belonged to in our hearts, if not in reality.
Then it was my turn. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I did not know. My face grew hot as I looked down at my desk, feeling the eyes of my classmates on me, their expressions shifting from pride to surprise to something like pity. Not knowing felt like a betrayal, like I was disconnected from something everyone else shared. I wanted to disappear, to avoid those eyes full of astonishment, as if I’d broken some unspoken rule of being Palestinian.
When school ended that day, I waited impatiently for my father to arrive home. I wanted to ask him about who we were and where we were from. I needed to know my village’s name, my heritage, and my piece of Palestine. When he eventually came, I blurted out the question with a peculiar eagerness. He showed me our family’s identification card, which was granted to Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. I examined the document and the words printed on it in faded ink. Haifa is the place of origin. My heartbeat quickened. Haifa — a seaside city similar to Sidon, which I had heard about in songs and family legends.
For a little time, I felt a sense of pride, a connection to something greater than myself. But then, almost as an afterthought, my father said, “Your grandfather was originally from Jabalia, in Gaza. We belong to a different family and clan than the one we’re now registered with.”
I did not understand. There was far too much information, identities, and layers to disentangle. In my 12-year-old mind, all I wanted was a straightforward response, a name that I could remember and recite like my classmates. Instead, I felt like I had been given puzzle pieces that did not fit together. I nodded, appearing to comprehend, and then forgot about it. At 12, it didn’t seem that important.
Looking back now, I realize that moment was the beginning of a lifelong journey — one that is anything but simple. To be Palestinian is to carry the weight of lost villages and changed names, to inherit a history that is scattered across borders and bound up in documents that feel impersonal and foreign. The places we’re “from” are layers of memory and family history, tangled with the stories of displacement and survival.
Now, I often think about that moment in the classroom. I think about how my classmates answered with such certainty, and how that certainty was like an anchor. It’s something that grounds us as Palestinians, even when everything else feels uncertain. But for me, that anchor has always been a little out of reach, floating just beyond where I can grasp it.
It’s as if the reopened wounds in Gaza have awakened those roots in me, bringing them to life in unexpected ways. Even my participation in the We Are Not Numbers initiative began as a chance to share my narrative, to give words to events I felt were unique to me. But I quickly knew it was more than that. Every story I heard, every connection I formed, seemed to bring me closer to places I’d never gone and people I’d never met. It was as if each story was a reminder, tugging on something deep within, saying, “This is who you are,” “These are your roots, remember them.”
Now, when I think of Haifa and Jabalia, I feel awful, bitter sadness. I sense a connection to them, like if we had the same essence, but they are remote and unintelligible. It is a duality that both fulfills and exhausts me: the notion that I am a part of them and they are a part of me, despite the fact that I would never recognize them if we met on the street. I occasionally close my eyes and try to envision them. Are there young people in Jabalia who resemble me, with the same eyes and expressions?
I think about the people I’m losing in Jabalia — people who are my family in every way except name. Every loss seems as though a bit of me is disappearing — a glimpse of the life I could have lived and the person I could have been had things turned around. But, at the same time, every tale I hear brings back those bits, reminding me that we are all connected, even from a distance. Our roots traverse borders, uniting us in ways that cannot be severed, no matter how far apart we are.
This strange connection — belonging yet not belonging — is something I carry with me every day. It is a wound, yet it also represents strength. It reminds me that my identity is not limited by boundaries or documentation. It is based on something far deeper, something that lives in our stories, the memories we cherish, and the connections we continue to seek out, even when it is difficult. When I think of Jabalia or Gaza, I feel both empty and full. Emptiness, since a piece of me will always be missing as long as I am apart from that location and those people. Fullness comes from knowing that they are with me no matter where I am.
In my mind, I often imagine a place where borders and documents don’t define us, where being Palestinian in Lebanon is simply another way of belonging, rather than a label that separates us. For the time being, that place only exists in my writing, in the stories I tell myself and others, but perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to words — to storytelling. Through writing, I can create a space where our experiences matter, where our struggles and dreams aren’t invisible.
