we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Exiled from his homeland, overworked, and burdened by debt, my nephew Ahmed dreamed of reuniting his family and a better life for his children.
My nephew Ahmad Abu Hasirawith (left) pictured with a friend. Photo from a family album
Ahmed Abu Hasira wasn’t just my nephew, he was the dream I watched grow before my eyes. He was trying to carve out a future far from the pain and oppression into which he was born. He dreamed of giving his children the life he never had. But fate did not give him the time to finish what he had started. Ahmad’s path was cut short and he was taken from us without mercy.
Ahmad was always ambitious. He refused to be a prisoner of the siege, of the vast open-air prison that Gaza has become. Like every young man here, he dreamed of escaping from this narrow place, not because he wanted to abandon his homeland, but because he longed for a dignified life, a life he truly deserved.
He traveled far, sought work, and faced exile in every form: estrangement from his homeland, his family, and from familiar customs and traditions. Yet Ahmad stood firm, battling life so that he could secure a better future for his family.
Years passed with him far from us. He lost both his parents without being able to say goodbye, but he kept going. He met Alaa while he was working in the United Arab Emirates. They married in 2016 and soon had two daughters, Dana and Hala, before God blessed him and his wife with little Khaled to complete their small family.
Debt closed in around Ahmed as his responsibilities piled up. The dream of returning to Gaza resurfaced. He longed to gather his family under one safe roof and to be a father who was present rather than just a photo on a phone screen. But reality proved harsher than he expected. Alaa is Algerian and Gaza was no place for her. Only by migrating to Europe, Ahmad felt, could he give Alaa and their children a better life.
In 2022 Ahmad returned to Gaza to save the money he needed to send his family to Belgium. Once Alaa and the children had arrived and settled there, his plan was to join them through Belgium’s family reunification process.
Just two weeks before Ahmad’s scheduled departure to travel to Belgium and meet up with his family, came that day: October 7, 2023. Gaza became an open hell with relentless bombing, endless displacement, and a famine that devoured everyone.
The people of Gaza were ordered to flee south. Many did, but Ahmad refused to leave his house.
“What’s the point of fleeing if I’m alone?” he told me, “My family isn’t with me. I will stay here, where I was born, where I was raised, among my people.”
I spoke to Ahmad every day from where I was displaced in the southern Gaza Strip. Calling him from my mobile phone, I tried to hide my tears, to sound strong, but he knew I was crying. He felt the tremble in my voice. He pretended to be strong too. He didn’t want to burden me with more sorrow. But I knew—we both knew—and we cried in silence, hidden from the world, in the dark cruelty of war.
Then came the storming of Al-Shifa Hospital on November 10, 2023. The siege tightened. Bombs rained down. Belts of fire swallowed homes. Ahmad was living in that heart of hell. His home was bombed; his brothers and sisters were killed. The survivors came out only half alive and always half dead.
Ahmad wasn’t spared. He was crushed in the rubble and lost both of his legs. He became half a man—half a shattered soul.
Days passed. Ahmad lay in one of the cold rooms of the Al-Shifa Medical Complex. His body was weak, his face pale. But his eyes held the story of his life, the story of his struggle, and of dreams that would never come true.
A week later, on the stormy evening of November 17, a faint light crept through Ahmad’s hospital window. It was as if this was a signal to say goodbye. He called his family, holding his phone with a trembling hand. He wanted to hear his children’s voices one last time. He wanted to tell them he was okay. But he was unable to speak. The words died in his throat.
He listened to the laughter of his children—as if it was knocking against the walls of his broken heart. What he didn’t know was that this would be his final night. The last time he would hear three-year-old Khaled call out, “Baba.”
Ahmad closed his eyes for the last time. He passed away alone—far from his family, far from his dreams, far from a world that never gave him a chance to survive. He was 35 years old.
When the news reached Alaa in Belgium, the phone slipped from her hand and she collapsed. She couldn’t believe that Ahmad, who had fought so hard to reunite their family, had been cruelly taken before he could fulfil his dream.
Eighteen months on and Dana is eight years old, Hala is seven, and their little brother Khaled is five. Khaled carries in his heart a name without a body, a story with no happy ending. He keeps asking: “Where is my father? Why didn’t he come like he promised?” But no one can answer, because no one has an answer to that unbearable question.
Ahmad is gone. But his name will not die. His story will be told every day. And our tears will remain witnesses to a loss that will never heal.
