we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
I used to be young in spirit, health, and looks. Now I am none of these things—I am a mother praying for happiness and healing.
The first-birthday photo of Zakaria. Photo: Saeda Hamdona
When I decided to write this article, a poetic feeling stirred within me. I started writing my story with the word “young,” then I looked at myself and said, with mockery and sarcasm, “Young?!”
Some might believe I am like so many young women in the world: at the peak of femininity, health, and beauty, concerned with the latest fashion trends, wondering where to spend the weekend. Now, I am a young woman dressed in her grandmother’s clothes—or an old woman trapped in a 25-year-old’s body—whatever helps you picture me. My spirit is no longer youthful, nor is my health, nor even my appearance.
Before the war, I was in the prime of my youth. I graduated from the Faculty of Arts at the Islamic University of Gaza, majoring in the English language. I was striving to find a job and further develop my English. I had recently become the mother of the sweetest and most tender-hearted creature, Zakaria, who turned one just a few weeks before the war. For his first birthday, I had even set up a little corner full of birthday things, for a photo of my son, so that this day would remain a cherished memory. I was living in peace inside my small home, caring for my son and husband.
Now, the only things I manage to do are make bread dough, fetch water, and attempt to start a fire. Even the simplest tasks of our daily life now take time, money, and energy to accomplish. Before, we had gas, electricity, and modern conveniences—things you may not even think about. But now, everything has become so difficult and requires effort and patience.
Yet even within this reality, I am “lucky.” I now cook my food using firewood. But not everyone can use wood—some use shoes. Yes, shoes. This is a new phenomenon: People collect old shoes in sacks—not to wear, but to burn. Five kilos are sold for 10 shekels—about $3. Just imagine how desperate you must be to cook your food over burning shoes.
On September 25, 2024, around 3 p.m., my son Zakaria was playing between the tents. Suddenly, the place filled with dust, and we didn’t understand what was happening. Bombs from the occupation planes struck just a few meters away, and shrapnel shredded our tents. I began searching for my 2-year-old son; I found him crawling on the ground, his body covered in blood. He was crawling over the shrapnel, in great pain and unable to stand up to look for me. I felt a deep sense of brokenness. I wished I could bear the pain for him.
We quickly took him to the hospital, and the doctor decided to perform a surgical intervention for torn tendons. After the successful operation, we stayed in the hospital for several days, but unfortunately, my son needed daily physical therapy for the next three months.
Every day, I would wake up to change his clothes and take him to the hospital, but the feeling that dominated me was not one of exhaustion but rather joy that at least he had treatment, and I eagerly awaited the moment Zakaria would walk again and play like other children.
To soothe his boredom, I would read him stories, draw with him, watch songs on YouTube, and read the Qur’an. I tried to transform his time of healing and pain into happy and beautiful moments.
Each morning I got a dose of hope from my mother’s voice. She has a small ritual of calling me each morning to see how I am, to inquire about Zakaria, and to provide the solace that only a mother can provide. She continued this ritual, even after I was married, even during the war.
Before the war, we frequently visited each other. We shared a strong bond. But we lost that intimacy to distance when the war started. I was forced to move to the south while she stayed in the north. It was impossible to visit her with roads closed and danger everywhere. I also have renal problems and a thyroid condition, so my mother tells me to eat, to take my medication, to get some rest. My anchor was her voice, even on the phone. She has often said that her prayers are a barrier around me.
One time, after the phone call, I washed my face and lit a fire to prepare a cup of tea. My neighbor surprised me with the question: “Why are your eyes puffy? Are you okay?” I simply smiled and invited her to have tea. We began talking about the suffering we endured during the war, when a third voice from our mutual neighbor said, “Enough sadness. You’ve exhausted our hearts and yours since morning.”
Then I looked up at the sky and prayed with certainty that the coming days would be better, that I would soon be reunited with my loved ones, and that God, in His kindness, would soon instill in the hearts of the orphans, widows, and mothers who have lost their children, and all those who grieve in this war—even for the city of Gaza as a city—infinite doses of happiness, compensation, and healing.
I’ve changed from the girl who hoped to write a book to change the world. I am a mother today, fighting back with the final plate of lentils, window coverings, and milk for her infant. I write for my child, my sky-gazing mother, and my friends who are under the debris. Resistance is what I now consider to be my ideal.
