we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Heba prayed that she would not be separated from her children if fate chose to take them; that prayer was granted.
Haytham Eid with the 15-year-old quintuplets. Photo provided by the Eid family
For eight years, Heba Allah Ai Eid and her husband Haytham Eid waited, prayed, and clung to the hope of having a baby. The dream of holding a child in their arms seemed distant, but they never gave up.
After countless treatments, their prayers were answered—quintuplets arrived, filling their home with laughter and love. Khaled, Ismail, Mahmoud, Maryam, and Maria were their stars. Light after years of darkness.
Khaled. Photo provided by the Eid family
Ismail. Photo provided by the Eid family
Mahmoud. Photo provided by the Eid family
Heba with daughters Maryam and Maria. Photo provided by the Eid family
Heba’s husband was not only a brilliant calligrapher but a devoted father. His love knew no bounds, his generosity endless. He worked tirelessly to ensure his children grew up surrounded by warmth and kindness.
As war loomed, Heba’s greatest fear was losing them. She prayed they would never be separated, even in death, if fate decided to take them.
On Oct. 17, 2023, her nightmare became reality. In an instant, their home was wiped away. Heba, her husband, their five 15-year-old children, and 10 relatives were killed.
The world barely noticed. Their massacre was overshadowed, buried under another tragedy. More than 110 souls perished. Their futures were stolen, their dreams buried.
How much hope died with Heba? How many memories were erased? How many arms will reach for her, only to find emptiness? Their story must be told. Their names must be remembered, and their tragic loss must never be forgotten.
I still see Heba in my dreams. Sometimes, she’s sitting with her children in the park, brushing back their hair and smiling. Other times, she’s decorating their home for a birthday, hanging balloons, her face glowing with pride. I wake up in tears, torn between the beauty of the memory and the horror of the truth.
As war tore through Gaza with unrelenting brutality, the attack occurred around 2 p.m. on Oct. 17, just hours before the Al-Mamdani Hospital (also known as the Al-Ahli Arab Hospital) massacre, which drew most of the media’s attention. In the shadows of that larger tragedy, Heba’s story—her family’s story—seems forgotten.
But not by me.
Heba wasn’t just a victim or a name on a casualty list. She was a friend of my mother and me. We grew up in the same neighborhood. We shared secrets, laughed over silly mistakes, and leaned on each other during hard times. Heba was the kind of person who left an imprint on your soul—someone whose warmth stayed with you.
Her story was one of remarkable resilience. For eight long years, she and her husband Haytham struggled to have children. They traveled frequently to Egypt, seeking medical treatment, enduring countless procedures, hoping and praying.
She never spoke about those years with bitterness; it was always with a quiet strength. “When it happens,” she said, “it will all make sense.” And when it finally did happen, it was nothing short of a miracle: five beautiful babies born at once—quintuplets! I still recall the tears in her voice when they arrived, overwhelmed with joy and disbelief.
Their birth brought immense happiness not only to Heba and Haytham but to our entire community. The media celebrated their arrival, not just on the day they were born, but again on their first birthday. Five little stars had come into the world, lighting up a home that had known so much longing and struggle.
Raising quintuplets, of course, wasn’t easy—but Heba did it with incredible grace. She poured her entire soul into motherhood. She was patient, tender, and determined. Her children were known for their sweet nature, good manners, and brightness. They were her pride and joy.
Haytham was just as devoted. A masterful Arabic calligrapher and designer, his work adorned billboards across the region. Even without his name on them, his designs were unmistakable. He loved his children deeply and gave them everything—not just materially, but emotionally. He taught them to dream, be kind, and hold on tight to each other.
During the war, Heba grew more fearful. In one of her final messages to her niece, she wrote, “I am fine, but I’m scared. I keep looking at the ceiling and hearing sounds.’’ I often think of that message, the quiet terror in her words, the awareness of danger closing in, a mother’s instinct to shield her children even as the world collapsed around her.
When the airstrike hit the home of Uncle Abu Adham, it killed not just Heba and Haytham, but their five children and 10 other relatives. In total, that single massacre claimed more than 110 lives, including:
(We, the neighbors, surveyed the residents in the neighborhood who were martyred and estimated the number of those lost from each family.)
And yet, this devastating loss was barely mentioned in the news. It was overshadowed by other atrocities. The silence was deafening.
For me, the loss of Heba is not a number. It is a wound. Her voice, her laughter, her gentleness—all gone. Her children, whom she loved more than anything in this world—gone. Haytham, the father who lived for his family—gone. The beautiful future they dreamed of—erased in a flash.
Their death is not just a personal loss. It is the death of a story of perseverance, love, and human dignity. It is the end of voices that had so much to give. And it was a cruel, unrelenting reminder of the cost of war on the innocent.
Let us not allow their memory to be buried beneath rubble and headlines. Heba and her family deserved more. Their lives were full of meaning, and their story must be told. Not only to grieve them, but to remind the world of what war takes away—and what peace must protect.
