we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Making and selling candles has helped my family survive.
Candles made by the author. Photo: Asmahan Issa
In the “time before” October 7, 2023, my life was typical for a Palestinian woman with five children. I was fortunate to have a husband who supported our family, healthy thriving children, and a home that we had built together just a year before the start of the genocide. Like many Palestinians, we have a large extended family and we live to be together.
Sadly, my mother died in September 2023, and we have since suffered many losses. Our house has been destroyed, my husband no longer has work, our beloved niece and many cousins have perished, and we have lived through many terrifying near-death experiences. When shells landed on my father’s house where we were sheltering, we barely survived and were left homeless once again. We relocated to the Al-Nasser region and now live with my husband’s brother.
But let me return to the beginning of my story, October 7, 2023, a day whose historic consequence we had not yet understood, a day with no power, a day that marked the start of the very darkest of our days. I was very agitated and wanted to do something constructive with this “free time.” My devices had stopped functioning, batteries refused to charge, and the world felt big, quiet, and empty. Through this hole in time and routine I thought, “What can I do now?”
Do you know that Palestinians are especially resourceful, that we have a lifetime of experience, born of necessity, of discovering innovations that emerge from the most trying of situations? Yes, the last 20 months have been the worst of times. But life before October 7 was already one of constant struggle, a life endured, more than a life lived.
In the total darkness of that night, I thought of all the people throughout the ages who have lived without electricity, instead relying on the tiny, captivating flame of a candle to illuminate their lives. I had read about the age-old craft of candle making and had imagined feeling cozy and secure, even if only for the brief life of a flickering candle.
Light in the darkness. Photo: Asmahan Issa
In Gaza, where every aspect of daily life has been impacted and severely restricted by Israeli occupation, we are always looking for creative solutions. So instead of succumbing to frustration, I decided to launch my new project and use my own hands to light up the darkness.
My project started simply. With only wicks, wax, and my own imagination, I was soon immersed in the visual and sensory experience of making candles at home — in the warmth, aroma, and vivid hues of the melting wax. Using a small area in my kitchen, I melted the wax over a fire, inserted a wick, and poured the mixture into basic molds. I had no special instruments, only what I already had at home, and everything I learned about my art was through trial and error. Despite the challenges, the work was soothing, absorbing, and satisfying.
But how could I both share my newly found pleasure and, at the same time, provide for my family? I needed to sell my candles, but with frequent internet disruptions, online sales were nearly impossible, and I didn’t have a store. So, like other resourceful Palestinians, I decided to bring my candles to the streets! Why not erect a little booth and put my candles on display for all to enjoy and others to hopefully buy?
I was on a local street, standing behind my little stall in a market crowded with many vendors selling bread, vegetables, used clothing; all of us looking for any means to make a living, and, despite all our difficulties, feeling a sense of unity. I watched the people as they browsed. With perplexed looks, they gazed at my candles as though to ask, “Why are you here? Why candles?” And I wondered if they felt as I do, that candles are not just the wax and the wick from which they are made; they are a spark of hope in our lives, lighting our homes and our tents, bringing some relief from the endless onslaught of bombs and destruction.
I soon included my twin boys, Ali and Iyad, who are 10 years old. Because of the war, they had not been able to go to school and were now spending their days helping me sell candles in my stall. The lives of our children have been brutally interrupted and childhood is now anything but the carefree experience it should be. Though I wanted to pay them a reasonable wage, sales have varied a lot throughout the genocide. So I implemented a “flexible” payment plan based on the quantity of candles sold. To their credit, this has inspired them to work diligently and strategically.
Ali and Iyad’s dedication to our enterprise has been the project’s lifeblood, a vital ingredient in our joint venture of commerce and survival. I see my boys working hard and I pray that the activity is distracting them from the anxiety and physical stress of our daily lives. And although our mood alternates between fear and melancholy, I want to believe that our candle making business has eased our feelings of helplessness in the face of unimaginable trauma.
I could see right away that people were buying my candles as much for the mood they create as the essential lighting they provide. A woman might want to buy a gift for a friend, or a young man would buy one as a present for his wife or fiancée. I feel real pleasure knowing that my candles are used to express warmth, love, and concern. On days when we have enough to eat and we have the luxury of needing and wanting more than survival, my candles help people to find peace and tranquility. I now offer scented candles — lavender and vanilla — and ornamental candles, providing an enchanting source of light, and an artistic decoration because, yes, despite all we are living through, we still find pleasure in beautiful objects.
Of course, I am not the only vendor selling candles and I’ve had to distinguish my candles from the competition. My original and inventive patterns and designs are now very popular and are known throughout the community, because they are not just useful; they are symbols of family, hope, and endurance.
Now, 20 months after that fateful day in October of 2023, I am still selling my candles from my tiny street stall, bringing light and love to my fellow Palestinians.
Candles made by the author. Photo: Asmahan Issa
With my family by my side, my candle business has become an important source of income and survival, and more importantly, a labor of love that gives my life meaning and purpose. When I’m making or selling my candles, I have a feeling of control and independence and this helps me to stay strong.
In a dark world, I found some light for me and my family. And in a life filled with the unimaginable hardships of a genocide, I found a solution to the practical problem of needing light, a path for my spiritual need to bring comfort into this uncertain world, and an outlet for my ingenuity and creativity.
Now though, the genocide is raging and we are suffering from hunger, terror, and exhaustion. We lack everything. Our spirits are low. But I still want to say: If doors are closed before you, open a window. And if the world feels dark, start by lighting a candle — because isn’t the struggle to endure really a fight against the darkness?
