we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
During the war, the day of communal worship became just like any other day. No mosque, no lunch, no gathering, not even a sense of time.
The Kabsa made by Hassan’s mother in January 2026. Photo: Hassan Herzallah
“Do you remember how Fridays used to be before the war?” my mother asked me. We were sitting inside our tent, trying to distract ourselves from hunger with conversation. We had only a little bread, it was very cold, and our tent was made of flimsy fabric. I had not even realized what day it was until I glanced at my phone. Her question was idle, but it opened a stream of memories.
In Gaza, Friday was a break from work and school, but never just a day off. It had its own rhythm, starting a bit later and stretching out slowly, as if granting families extra time to be together. A day when schoolbooks were closed, work pressure eased, and the doors of homes and hearts opened wide.
Alaa, my older sister, remembered Friday as the only day she could work with our mother in the kitchen without feeling rushed. In the morning, Surah Al-Baqarah or Al-Kahf from the Qur’an would be read. Friday meals were a family ritual shared throughout the community. Alaa reminisced, “We would eat together, unlike other days. After Asr (mid-afternoon) prayer we would relax and talk. Sometimes we’d visit my grandmother.”
For my younger sister, Malak, now age 16, Friday would start very late, after a long Thursday night spent mostly watching cartoons. She would wake up to find the family had already had breakfast; falafel and hummus would be waiting for her on the table. Then my father would go to the market with my brothers to get the week’s groceries and other essentials, while my mother spent most of the day in the kitchen. “After Friday prayer,” Malak said, “I remember we would talk about the sermon and tell each other stories of our week, drinking tea or coffee together. It was a simple day, but full.”
“A weekly Eid” is how my mother described those Fridays. All Gazans treated the day with special reverence. We spent the entire day doing things together, unlike the rest of the week when everyone scattered early to school or for work. On Fridays we postponed our chores, then helped each other finish them before we gathered for a special lunch.
“Friday was the day we felt like a complete family,” my mother said.
Then the genocide came.
The days lost all meaning in the midst of endless bombings, displacement, and starvation.
My younger brother Muhammad, age 12, expressed himself with heartbreaking simplicity. “During the war, Friday became just like any other day. No mosque, no lunch, no gathering, not even a sense of time. It could have been a Monday or Thursday.”
That day, as we continued reminiscing, Malak wondered, “Will we ever have a Friday like we used to?”
Her question stayed with me, an emblem of all we had been denied.
Even after the so-called “ceasefire” the sweetness of Fridays eluded us. The tent did not feel like home, and people had changed. After all they had seen, they seemed to have forgotten the quiet joy they shared with their loved ones at the end of each week.
In Gaza, almost everyone has lost someone, and not just anyone, often the person who once gave meaning to ordinary days, to Fridays in particular. A roof can be rebuilt, but where do we find the one we used to sit with beneath it? The sadness in the people around me hurt my heart. I knew I had to do something different.
I had saved some money, waiting for the day when the goods we used to buy before the war returned to the markets. On the first Thursday of 2026, without anyone knowing, I went shopping. I bought chicken and meat that I secretly left with my friend living in a nearby tent, who had solar panels and refrigeration.
The night before had been especially hard. We were in the midst of a severe winter storm, and the winds shook the tent so violently I was afraid they might tear it away. I worried the heavy rain would pierce our tent covering and soak us while we slept, so I stayed awake for hours trying to fix any small holes that might let water in. When I woke early in the morning, it was freezing, and the winds still raged.
But that didn’t stop me.
I started a fire to prepare the mint tea as we always had. Then I woke my parents, surprising them with my preparations for an abundant Friday feast.
I recited Surah Al-Kahf over the tea and went to retrieve the food I had stored in my friend’s refrigerator. We delighted in planning our meal. My mom said she would prepare the kabsa like we used to make before the war, and since my father and brother were hungry for the taste of shawarma, we decided to make that as well. Just before the call to prayer, my father, my brother Muhammad, and I headed to the mosque we used to attend, which was far from the camp. We knew the long walk would make us even more hungry, but our meal would be even better afterward. My mother was so excited. “I feel like it’s just as it was before the war! I will do my best cooking to make you all happy!”
Making shawarma, reclaiming Friday. Photo provided by Hassan Herzallah
On returning, my father and I re-kindled the fire while my sisters Alaa and Malak prepared rice and salad and my mother worked on her special spice mix for the kabsa and shawarma. After so many months without decent food, what a feast we had that day!
Later, Malak told me, “This was the first Friday since the bombing stopped that brought back a feeling I thought would never return. Despite this flimsy tent and all we have lost, it felt like before the war… but in a different place and setting.”
