we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
From the balcony of our home, we now look out at bombed buildings, a pool of sewage water, and dark clouds of pollution hovering over a lifeless sea.
From Rula’s balcony in the morning, before the genocide. Photo: Rula Hamdouna
Our home balcony was a small world that embraced the sky, the sea and my mother’s smiling face as we sipped coffee together. Every morning it brought me calm and hope. But after October 7, 2023, it became something else entirely.
My parents, four siblings and I continued to live in our seaside apartment as the battle advanced ever closer, but after a year, as the fight drew nearer, the Israeli occupation army issued an order for the residents of northern Gaza to evacuate their homes and head south. Our decision was extremely difficult—how could we leave our home, with all of its beautiful memories? How could we abandon the place that represents stability, warmth and safety, only to move into a stranger’s house or be forced to live in a tent? We had never known life in a tent and never imagined that, one day, it would become our only option.
We had no choice but to leave. We complied with the orders, searching for a lost sense of safety in the south. We cried as we said goodbye to our home. Our parents’ eyes spoke without words, sharing a tacit language of fear and sorrow. My father’s face was pale, and my mother bid the house farewell as if she were parting with the most precious thing she owned. As for me and my siblings, we cried endlessly. We didn’t want to leave.
After returning, the balcony view was of utter destruction and a pool of sewage water, collected from the nearby tents and damaged homes. Photo: Rula Hamdouna
After a year and a half of displacement, Palestinians were finally allowed to return to our homes and we made our way back to northern Gaza. It was an unforgettable, historic moment for us—returning to the neighborhood we grew up in, to the home that carried our childhood memories. Although my father owned several apartments in Gaza, the one we lived in was the place he feared losing the most, the one he was most afraid would be completely destroyed. Not only because we lived in it, but also because it offered a serene view of the unspoiled beach.
In the past, whenever someone offered to buy it, he would always say, “I wouldn’t trade or sell this apartment for all the money in the world.” He also loved the neighborhood itself and its beautiful location. My father was the most eager among us to return. He waited to go back to it as if he were waiting to be reunited with his daughter after a year and a half of separation. Even though we had remained within Gaza, being in the south and away from our familiar streets and surroundings felt like true exile.
The moment we arrived in the neighborhood, it felt as if life had returned to our souls. My mother was crying with joy, and my younger brother said, “I feel like I’m seeing a dream, not reality.”
But as we got closer, we were shocked to find that much had been destroyed. The house was no longer as we had left it: large parts of it had been completely burned. My siblings and I rushed up the stairs to check on the apartment, especially the balcony, and we found that it still existed, but the view had completely changed. The surrounding buildings had been bombed, and the balcony now overlooked ruins.
The war that consumed the city did not spare the sea; it had been transformed into a disfigured gray surface. What was once a peaceful view has become a scene of debris. Elegant buildings are now rubble, a smoky haze fills the sky, and the sea is now murky.
In the middle of the view, a “lake” has appeared…but it’s not a natural sight. It’s a pool of sewage water, collected from the nearby tents and demolished homes.
The bitter reality is that Gaza’s infrastructure can no longer bear the weight of its people. Treatment facilities collapsed under the bombardment, forming stagnant pools known as “sewage lakes.”
A thick cloud of polluted smoke from industrial diesel production rises before the sea. Photo: Rula Hamdouna
There’s now a noxious black fog hovering over the sea. It’s a poison that chokes the lungs known as “industrial diesel.” The scent of my mornings is no longer my mother’s coffee but burned smoke creeping into windows and filling our chests.
People here can no longer afford regular diesel due to the siege and high prices, so they’ve turned to a deadly solution: producing “industrial diesel” by burning plastic and black rubber to create fuel for generators. On the very shore of the sea, primitive ovens have been set up. The price: poisoned air, black skies, a bleak, lifeless sea, and homes suffocated by fumes and foul odors.
From my balcony, I now see a cloud of pollution. The chirping birds have vanished. The scent of the sea has been replaced by burning plastic smoke. Every morning begins with suffocation and my balcony now offers only a view of a wasteland. The quiet peace of coffee with my mother is a memory; today we start the day with the intermittent screech of planes in the sky and generators’ persistent groan of metal.
The effects of this pollution are not limited to the scenery or the smell but have penetrated deep into our bodies and breath. My younger brother, who is seven, wakes up at night coughing violently, choking on the smoke that seeps into the house. My mother, who used to start her morning by preparing coffee and smelling its aroma, now begins her mornings with the smell of sewage and toxic smoke. She has started suffering from recurring shortness of breath, even though she never had any illness before. Even my father and all my siblings now have pale faces and move as if they are trying to escape the air itself.
Everyone in the neighborhood must keep their windows shut all day, if they are able to, despite the extreme heat. In addition, insects and rodents have spread inside the houses because of the pollution. These foul smells and this pollution are no longer something occasional—they now cling to us and every corner of the house.
We want a future where we can look from our balconies and see the living sea, not destruction. We long for a clear sky, with air we can breathe. We simply want the chance to restore what we lost: a dignified life.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
