we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Professor Rami once promised us an important lesson in translation, but his death taught me a deeper one.
Professor Rami Sweilem, martyred on Dec. 12, 2024. Source: the Sweilem family
I remember clearly the last time I saw my favorite professor in person. His face glowed with light, adorned with a warm smile. His lectures were filled with energy and enthusiasm: I enjoyed every single minute. That day, he promised me and my classmates that in our next session, we would dive into economic and commercial translation strategies. I was more eager for that class than any other, because I truly believed that trade and economy rule the world—and therefore, translation in these fields is absolutely essential.
That was at Al-Azhar University on October 5, 2023, before the catastrophe struck.
Just two days before the nightmare began, my friend and I were preparing a presentation for one of our classes. We had chosen the Nakba and the suffering of the Palestinian people as our topic. We had no idea that history was about to repeat itself. It was as if what we planned to present had written itself into our lives. We wrote the script together, and then it turned into a real-life horror film.
On December 12, 2024, by then living in Egypt, I was checking the latest updates on our class group chat when I was struck by a lightning bolt of a message: “May God have mercy on the martyr Professor Rami Sweilem.”
I stared at his photo in disbelief. It felt like time had frozen. While messages of condolences poured in from my classmates, I remained silent. I couldn’t process it. My mind refused to believe what was now a brutal reality—his familiar smile, his kind and compassionate face, now only a memory. It was a devastating piece of news that my heart simply couldn’t bear. I found myself weeping one moment and raging the next.
My professor was a peaceful, kind-hearted man. He had no affiliation to Hamas. He was neither an agitator nor a criminal. He was simply a teacher. He trained us in translation, inspired us with his moving and encouraging words, and guided us toward our dreams. He was a symbol of hope at our university, and every student truly loved him.
They didn’t just bomb my university. They didn’t just destroy my future. They killed my beloved professor. And with him, they shattered my dreams.
I remember Professor Rami’s last message to our group a year ago, when online instruction was starting up. He told us that he would no longer be instructing us and that another professor would take over. I felt frustrated and disappointed. He didn’t give a reason, but I sensed that something bad would happen, like I would never see him again.
I didn’t expect he would pass away. His death was so unjust.
I wonder…
Is it lawful to kill women, children, doctors, teachers, so many innocents—all under the excuse of “self-defense”?
Is it natural to spill the blood of the native people—those who’ve lived on this land for generations—in the name of “defense”?
What did my friends do to be killed? What did my loved ones do to be buried? And what did I do to be forced to leave my home and never return?
Now, as I write these words in June 2025, I am on the verge of online graduation, yet I still don’t know what Professor Rami would have taught us. I feel that lecture would have marked a turning point in my life. He would have guided me toward my goal, shown me the right path to follow. I would have become an expert in translation because of him. But the war took everything from me.
Although we have been forced to adapt to online learning, it has failed me completely. The lectures are pre-recorded, with no interaction, no possibility to ask questions. There are no textbooks, either. It’s like watching a lifeless YouTube clip—cold, detached, and nothing like the vibrant classrooms we once had. As for the exams, they have no timer, and sometimes it takes 12 hours to deliver the answer. I miss the pressure I used to feel when time was running out in an exam. Now, cheating is rampant and open, and nobody is punished.
I understand this is all meant to accommodate our wartime conditions. But, who among us has the energy to study when our loved ones are starving to death only a few kilometers away? Who among us can concentrate while we still breathe the stench of death that never leaves us? Who among us gets over the trauma of the worst war ever and proceeds with their life?
Very few. So very few.
We graduate, but with broken hearts for a future that has been stolen. We graduate knowing that the right to life isn’t for us—it belongs to those who occupy our land. The innocent? Death takes them one by one. And maybe… maybe that is mercy for them.
I escaped death, but suffering followed me. I was forcibly displaced from Gaza and fled to Egypt in February 2024. Palestinians in Egypt are denied residency and therefore live in legal limbo.
Like the thousands of other Palestinians who have fled death in Gaza to Egypt, my life is virtually paralyzed. We live in the in-between. We can’t go back home, and we can’t start a new life here either.
We are refugees without rights. We cannot work, our children cannot attend school, and access to healthcare, lodging, and travel are heavily restricted. We can’t even purchase an Egyptian SIM card!
If we speak up, we’re told we’re lucky. If we ask for help, we’re silenced—or worse, threatened with deportation. But where would we go?
Our loved ones die just beyond the border, and we can do nothing for them. Sometimes, I feel guilty for fleeing without them. Other times, I wish I hadn’t fled at all. For dying in your homeland is more honorable than living under the mercy of people who don’t want you among them.
Maybe if I hadn’t left, I could have attended the funeral and offered my condolences to Professor Rami’s family. Maybe I would have comforted them, reminded them of his remarkable dedication to teaching us—perhaps they would have felt proud of their son for a moment, rather than overwhelmed by grief. Or maybe I could have seen his smile one last time—that reassuring smile that made me believe there are still good people in this cruel world.
Professor Rami once promised us a profound lesson in translation, but his death taught me a deeper one. It taught me that war—though it steals our homes, our futures, and our loved ones—can never take away the memories of what has been and what might have been. That a kind soul leaves behind a lasting mark, one that lives on even after they’re gone.
His departure taught me that life is short, and that I must live every moment as if it’s the last.
Most of all, it taught me to be grateful for what I still have. Even if reality is bitter, at least I am still breathing, and my senses are intact.
And that, for now, is lesson enough.
