we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
For my friend, every step of the wedding ritual was recreated despite the losses and the constraints imposed by war.
Najeia’s hands holding her rose bouquet and dress. Photo: Logain Hamdan
What does a wedding look like in the middle of a genocide?
I found out the day my best friend, Najeia, got married in northern Gaza. I was displaced in the south, and against all odds, I made the dangerous and exhausting journey to stand beside her. I witnessed every detail: the early morning preparations, the humble wedding feast, her farewell to her father’s home, the gathering of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and the bittersweet celebration in the wedding hall.
At first glance, it looked like any other wedding—dresses, music, laughter. But the illusion faded quickly: There were no undamaged mirrors in the hall; the music was frequently drowned out by drones; makeup was tackled under the glow of a phone flashlight; and the guest list depended on who was still alive and who could afford the long trek north.
In July 2024, Najeia met Abdulrahman—the love of her life—in a co-working space. She worked as a user experience designer; he was a software projects manager.
The co-working space was a small world of its own, a rare place where electricity and the internet were powered by solar energy, attracting ambitious students and freelancers. It was where grief and aspiration could exist in the same space, where people encouraged each other and worked for clients abroad under immense mental pressure. So, who expects love to grow there? In fiction, maybe—in Turkish dramas, in romantic comics—but in Gaza, it was as real as the danger outside.
Both of them had been displaced to the south—she to Deir Al-Balah, he to Khan Younis. The south threw them together, and fate took over. Despite the displacement, instability, and shortages, Abdulrahman spoke to her father and proposed. They got engaged and set a wedding date, clinging to the hope that the genocide might end before that day. But the reality was otherwise, merciless and seemingly without end. Still, they shared whatever moments they could—moments that fed the bond between them. Love thrived, even with genocide as the backdrop.
They decided to hold the wedding in February 2025 in the north, where Najeia was from. People had begun returning during the two-month ceasefire, determined to reclaim their land, even if their houses were piles of rubble and sand. However, the war returned, more brutal than before.
I was still in the south, without hope of finding a place in the north to stay. The road was tough; no transportation was allowed because Israel had banned civilian vehicles even during the ceasefire. Most people walked the nine miles on foot, carrying all their belongings to start over again in their destroyed towns. Some had children clinging to them, others carried heavy loads.
If you could afford it, there were donkey carts—slow, uncovered under the burning sun, and expensive because they were scarce. Yet they were still the best option for me. I couldn’t imagine my best friend getting married without me being there to share the occasion. On the day of Najeia’s wedding I faced the risks, left early in the morning, and began the long journey to be at her side.
By the time I reached the home where Najeia was staying—her grandfather’s place on Al-Jalaa Street—I was drained, but the sight of her family’s building filled me with a rush of joy.
Inside, the rooms were full of relatives. Their eyes held sorrow, but their faces carried smiles for the day. This was the first daughter in the family to marry—the eldest among her siblings—and even though the happiness was incomplete, it was real. We were determined to push misery to one side for just a few hours.
According to our tradition, all the bride’s relatives gather at her home for lunch before the wedding. There’s a separate space for the women and another for the men, while the bride spends the whole day at the salon.
When I stepped inside, children stood on the staircase, drumming and making celebratory noise as guests arrived. Laughter rose from the rooms. I felt goosebumps. For a moment, it seemed as if I had been transported back to a time before October 7, 2023. A wave of nostalgia hit me so hard it almost hurt. I went straight to her mother, hugged her, and said, “Congratulations to dear Najeia!” She replied warmly, “May you be next!”
I sat down among her relatives—her aunts, her cousins, and her close friend Noha. Her mother placed a tray of rice in front of me. Chicken was rare and expensive now, but she had spared no effort or expense for her daughter’s wedding. Noha and I ate together, chatting about how Najeia had grown up, how she was now a busy wife about to run her own household. We confessed that we would miss her, and that if there were no war, how freely we would visit, bring gifts and watch her new life begin. But we both knew these were dreams that genocide might never allow.
After the humble feast, Noha and I sneaked into the small, dark room where all the girls were getting ready for the hall. There was no light, no electricity, and no mirror. Noha and I took turns holding the phone flashlight, applying makeup carefully—our hands trembling, fearing the makeup would smear. We finished not knowing how our faces really looked, but at least we felt prettier than if we had put nothing on at all.
The bride’s sister Zaina. Photo: Logain Hamdan
By evening, Najeia had returned from the salon. Her look was carefully styled, her white dress glowing despite the dim light and shortages. She had even taken care of the smallest details—her nails painted, her wedding rings polished, a crystal necklace resting at her throat. The room erupted in zaghareet (ululations) mingled with tears. It wasn’t the grand wedding she once dreamed of, but in that moment, her beauty defied the war.
I filmed her at the wedding feast, lifting a spoon with delicate hands, a pocket of white flowers pressed close to her dress. She clung to the bouquet as though it were a lifeline, tilting it just enough to reveal the shimmer of her rings, the glint of a crystal necklace, the soft glow of her white dress.
I talked to her. In another time, we might have laughed about the playlist or whispered about the honeymoon, reception, or travel. Instead, we found ourselves wondering whether she and her husband would be lucky enough to find a flat among Gaza’s rubble and the few rare homes still standing.
Then we danced in the hall—some just swaying softly, others moving with forced enthusiasm. We had already decided: this was her day and we would make her happy.
The wedding “hall” was actually the basement garage of a building which had miraculously survived the bombing. It was decorated with whatever they could find. The music system and simple string of colored lights ran on a solar-powered system. The sound rose and fell as the battery fluctuated, but it was still music and that was enough.
Najeia’s bridesmaids take a selfie: Logain (left) and Noha. Photo: Logain Hamdan
Then came the farewell. Her father and brothers hugged her before Abdulrahman arrived to take her hand. Together, they walked down the stairs as we sang and ululated. The car waiting for them had been fueled with difficulty and at great expense. But tradition mattered. No one wanted to skip a single step of the wedding rituals, not after everything she had lost.
It was then I realized how late it was and that I still had a long, dangerous trip back to the south. I hugged Najeia tightly. “I’ll see you soon—in better circumstances,” I told her. She smiled, and I left her in Abdulrahman’s care, unsure when—or if—we would meet again. Nothing in Gaza is certain.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
