we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Once again, we are back to asking ourselves all of the same questions: Should we stay or should we leave? Now or later?
By late September 2025, many families in northern Gaza were forced to flee, including my own. Photo: Samah Zaher Zaqout
My dear father, who spent the whole offensive thinking, was afraid to make a decision he might regret. I could see the sadness, exhaustion, and worry on his face. He looked worn out, with dark circles under his eyes and constant headaches, even though he has unwavering faith, always trusting that whatever God wants will happen.
But life in Gaza forces us to overthink, to push our mind and body beyond their limits, just to make decisions we’re never sure are right or wrong.
Each time, my father had to decide: Should we evacuate or stay where we were sheltering? Until that final period came, September 2025, when everything in Gaza was heading toward one of two fates: either this offensive would consume everything, or it would finally end.
The area we lived in, in the north, was being emptied, but what could we do? Maybe the fighting would become even fiercer than before, and people would be expelled from the north in ways more horrific than we had ever seen. But it didn’t matter how hard it would be, how dangerous the road was, or whether we’d end up in a tent—or even if, in the end, our decision would turn out to be wrong and the offensive would actually stop. Should we risk leaving? Should we risk staying?
Fear is the prevailing feeling in Gaza—fear of loss, fear of displacement, fear of the future, fear of hope, fear of despair, fear of saying goodbye to a loved one or losing someone dear. Strangely, the fear of losing yourself seems to be the smallest of all. Because if you die, you are no longer the person who has to say goodbye, nor the one who will fall into depression and grief. You become someone who lives in unconsciousness, in numbness, in nonexistence.
In Gaza, even hope terrifies us. How many times have we found ourselves in conversations where we admit we’re afraid to hope again because every time we’ve hoped, it has ended in suffocating despair that stripped us of the right to hope again, the right to live?
Each time we dared to hope, we allowed ourselves a small moment of joy, believing that maybe life would get better. We’d talk for hours about what we would do if the war ended.
Some of us wanted to continue higher education, like me; some wanted to travel, just to breathe again; some wanted to start small businesses because Gaza lacks jobs. Others dreamed of going to the beach and having a barbecue like we used to do. Some just wanted to eat chicken at Westeros, the famous chicken restaurant in Gaza City’s Rimal neighborhood. And some, like my father, only wished for peace of mind—just to stop the constant overthinking.
We decided to leave, like hundreds of families fleeing from the north to central or southern Gaza. We found a minibus to take us.
The minibus could only fit our most important belongings and just half of us. Photo: Samah Zaher Zaqout
There were nine of us in my family. My little sister, Alaa, carried her yellow teddy bear, which is almost five wars old and has been with us through every part of our displacement since this offensive began. Now the teddy bear is worn out, patched up, and covered in dust from all the moving, exhaustion, and bombings. We tried to wash it, but even the toy seems tired.
We traveled with my uncle’s family, which is also my fiancé’s family. That added nine more people: my fiancé, his sick mother, and his brother’s and sister’s families.
My grandmother, who has cancer, was with us as well. She obtained official permission to leave Gaza for treatment, but she is still here suffering, waiting to be authorized to evacuate. My mother’s aunt, who is also elderly and sick, came with us so we could take her to her son in central Gaza.
We took everything we could: our essential belongings, the tent, kitchen supplies, and even the toilet seat because toilets are now so expensive. We also brought mattresses and blankets to prepare for the winter we knew was coming.
Rain and winter used to be our favorite time of year. We would stand on the balcony, record the rain to share online, light charcoal, make tea, and enjoy the sound of rain while staying warm inside. Now, rain and winter bring a different kind of fear.
The minibus couldn’t fit everyone, so my father found a second vehicle. Like many cars in Gaza now, it had a makeshift cart attached to it, called an ‘ajla. It’s a small trailer on wheels hitched to the car, and sometimes people even stand outside and hold on.
We divided ourselves and the belongings between the vehicles. Some of us rode inside the minibus; the men sat on top. And some rode in the car like me, my father, four of my sisters, my aunt, my sister-in-law, and her baby. But there was no room left inside for my father. So he had to hold on to a metal pole attached to the cart, the ‘ajla, standing on a narrow strip of iron above the wheel. He gripped it tightly and endured the whole journey from the back.
We set off, praying every minute for our safety. We reached Al-Nowairi Hill, and from there, the road was supposed to be easier. At one point, the car stopped, and I looked back and didn’t see my father. I felt like I was going to lose my mind. Where was he?
Then I saw him: He had jumped down for a moment because he couldn’t keep standing on that narrow metal edge. He walked quickly toward me to reassure me, saying, “I’m here, I just needed to rest for a moment.” He smiled at me, and I could see tears in his eyes. I couldn’t hold myself together and started crying. He brought me some water, and we continued on the road.
We finally reached Deir Al-Balah, in Central Gaza, to a piece of land that, honestly, was better than the overcrowded displacement camps. At least there, people knew each other; we were all relatives. There was water and we could charge our phones and laptops from solar panels. There was no internet but I could go to a nearby café to connect when needed for my work.
First of all, we pitched our tent, the “dome tent” or “Al-Qubba tent,” as we call it. Let me tell you more about tents. There are Turkish tents: they are good, but they don’t protect well from rain or wind, and they’re unbearably hot in summer. Then there are the Qatari tents. These are better, but with very low ceilings, and they also don’t protect well when the rain is heavy. There are also makeshift tents people build themselves from nylon sheets and wooden poles— decent but cold, and they could flood at any time.
And then there are dome tents like ours. It’s the best type. We had received it from an aid distribution, and my father had kept it packed away. Nearly two years passed in the offensive without us having to use it, until now. We set it up, and it fit all nine of us and our meager belongings. My grandmother, who has a problem being in confined places, couldn’t tolerate staying inside because it’s suffocating, hot, and crowded. So, we built her a separate space from nylon and wood next to it.
My belongings, including the bouquet my fiancé gave me on our engagement day and which more or less made it through our last move. Photo: Samah Zaher Zaqout
We’ve been living in the tent for about four months now. Winter is here. We’re luckier than many; at least we have blankets to cover ourselves and some warm clothes to wear. But so many displaced in Gaza have nothing. They are just waiting for their name to appear on an aid list so they might get a blanket or some clothes. There’s no money, no jobs, and the unemployment has drained the youth, killing their dreams.
Today was awful. I spent the whole day inside the tent, just staring at its roof swaying back and forth with the fierce wind and rain, as if it might fly off at any minute. And this is a dome tent, which is better than most. Stepping outside is a struggle; it’s almost always flooded. Today, the wind was so strong it ripped the entrance door off the area we’re in. Every time it rains, I see my dad jumping up, hammering the tarp back into place, adjusting what flew away. He keeps a small bag of nails just for this, and hands some out to neighbors whenever they need them.
We might stay here in our tent in central Gaza another month, simply because we don’t know if going back home would be the right decision or a mistake we can’t afford to make. Once again, we are back to asking ourselves all of the same questions: Should we stay or should we leave? Now or later? We fear that if we return to the north, the war returns and we are ordered to evacuate. We fear that if we stay and the war ends, we will be suffering inside tents instead of finding a better place in the north. Should we wait until Step 2 of the ceasefire because maybe it will make things clearer? Maybe they never become clearer. All roads before us lead to fear.
