we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Lunching out at a restaurant becomes an act of courage and hope.
Laughter, light talk, and pizza with loved ones: Happiness, even encased in sadness, was still possible. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona
My fear of the next bomb explosion keeps me from going outside, unless I absolutely have to. I don’t dare even consider going out on a casual date or spending time outside. I am terrified of the idea of being in a public place where I may suddenly be bombed at any time.
To my surprise, this past April in the days following Eid al-Fitr, the fears that immobilized me for so long, briefly lifted. After I received my Eidiyya, the small sum of money parents give their children on Eid al-Fitr, I suddenly felt a great need to get out, to breathe, to escape the oppressive routine that had shrouded our lives for a year and a half, even if it was only for a little while.
Even though there was no ceasefire, I decided to ask several family members to join me for lunch at Pizza Pizza, a restaurant close to Taj Mall, a shopping mall in the Al-Sahaba neighborhood of Gaza City. During the last ceasefire, the proprietor was able to complete some renovations and reopen. Amazingly, Pizza Pizza remains a functioning restaurant. Because of the scarcity of food and other resources, prices are sky-high, especially in Gaza City, where money is hard to come by.
I picked Pizza Pizza because I was drawn to the pictures they posted on Instagram. They were straightforward, vibrant, full of colors, and exuded a warmth I hadn’t experienced in months. I told my sister and six female cousins I wanted them to go there with me. To my surprise, they quickly agreed. We all needed a change of pace and a breath of fresh air.
I selected Pizza Pizza restaurant for our outing; this photo is from the Facebook page of the Pizza Pizza chef, Mohamed Alamarin
The first thing we had to do was psychologically prepare ourselves to leave the house. We all knew we could be martyred en route or that we could return home to discover our loved ones martyred. Everyone in Gaza is terrified because the bombardment does not distinguish between young and old or between those who are civilians and those who are not.
Before we left, I told my mother, “Don’t be sad if anything happens to us while we are gone. We put our trust in God when we leave the house.” Then, with a mixture of anxiety and excitement in our hearts, we set out together on the 60-minute walk to Pizza Pizza.
The road to the restaurant was lined with bombed-out buildings and packed with people making their way through piles of rubble and garbage. Along the way, we passed people who had set up makeshift stalls where they were selling different kinds of canned foods, such as lentils, chickpeas, fava beans, rice, and pasta for between 11 and 14 shekels ($3 to $4) per can.
Even though we could have been killed in an airstrike at any moment, we were glad to be going to a restaurant. Something in us still throbbed with life, even in the midst of all this destruction.
Once we reached Pizza Pizza, I paused for a moment and observed the scene inside. I felt like I was about to enter a different world. When I saw the modest furnishings, the subdued lighting, the soothing music, and the faces of the approximately 20 other patrons, I knew I had found what I was looking for—proof that despite the death and destruction, life was still possible. Over the next two hours, the eight of us sat at the table, barely believing that we were in a restaurant, a public place away from the anxiety and terror.
The restaurant itself is a bit of a miracle. The only reason it still exists is that the owner was able to stock up during the ceasefire, when food and supplies were allowed into Gaza. Since then, prices have continued to rise as food becomes scarcer. They are now double what they were during the ceasefire. One personal pizza costs 120 shekels (approximately $34). Because of this, most people can no longer afford to eat at Pizza Pizza. Our meal was definitely a splurge. We used all the money we had received from our families for Eid.
I ordered a pizza. That probably sounds like a simple thing. It wasn’t. It was extraordinary. I was eating out for the first time since the start of the war. For the first time, I was sitting at a table, surrounded by laughter and light talk without the sound of airplanes flying overhead.
Something in me shifted when the pizza came. I thought about the pre-war era, when we could go to a restaurant or café without fear of being killed. With each bite came the taste of long-lost safety and nostalgia. As we ate, we talked about our longing for the war to end, and about how hard our lives had become. We were lucky to have this brief respite from the scarcity of everyday life, even as we could not stop talking about it.
I am sick of all this war talk. Food shortages, explosions, and conflict have taken over our minds. We no longer discuss our aspirations or life objectives. This saddens me. When I tried to shift the conversation by asking my sister and cousins about their dreams for the future, they each responded that they would “give it some thought after the war is over.”
It feels like we’ve begun to lose hope. Sometimes it feels like we no longer even have the ability to hope the war will end. “Why should we discuss our dreams when we might die and never realize them?” my family asked me. That’s not how I see it. For me, discussing my dreams with others is what gives me the willpower to persevere.
Even though I felt happy that day, I could not totally shake the fear. I found myself looking toward the restaurant’s door, observing the sky, and examining the faces of everyone around me. I wasn’t entirely comfortable; I was plagued by the thought that everything could change in an instant.
In the midst of all this, I made an effort to savor the present and cling to it as if it were a lifeline thrown to me in a raging sea. I made an effort to escape the vicious cycle of hunger and anxiety. I’ve had enough of this. Like everyone else in the world, I want to live my life in peace.
When the day was over, I went back home and told my mother about this stunning location in Gaza. The scene of the restaurant was vivid in my mind; my heart was bursting with emotion; I felt thankful and sad at the same time. I was thankful I was able to experience a few hours of calm, but sad that such experiences are so infrequent, fleeting, and brittle.
Nevertheless, I felt strong. I now know that despite everything, I can find some bits of happiness in the midst of devastation.
Even though that day was brief and the calm I experienced, fleeting, it made a lasting impression on me. The sliver of life I discovered amid the devastation reminded me that happiness is still possible, even when it is encased in sadness. The memory of that day helps me move forward and serves as a constant reminder that there is always a reason to persevere despite the fear.
In the end, all I want is to go through each day fearless, bomb-free, and without hunger. I want is to live every day with honor, security, and purpose. I don’t want simply to survive. I want to live a life worth remembering.
