we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
In exile in Egypt, I carry Gaza within me wherever I go, but I do not know where I can safely plant my roots.
Amal and her father at the Rafah Crossing checkpoint between Gaza and Egypt. Photo: Nada Alkhatib
At 10 o’clock on the night of April 29, 2024, my name, along with my sister Nada’s, appeared on the travel list from Gaza to Egypt.
I read my name in a low voice, as if I were reading someone else’s. I did not jump. I did not smile. I exchanged silent glances with my mother, father, and sisters. No one said “Congratulations.” No one cried. It was as if we feared that expressing joy might awaken something evil.
That night, I did not think about the journey or what would come after. One question followed me: Is survival a betrayal?
Seven months before that moment, on the morning of October 7, 2023, I woke at 6 a.m. to the sound of an explosion that shook the windows, followed by successive rockets. The sound was familiar in Gaza, but that day it was different. I sat up in bed, anxious, and reached for my phone. The news was unfolding at an unusual speed.
I was 25 then: ambitious, working remotely, planning to pursue my studies abroad. I dreamed of major companies and wider horizons beyond the small city I loved but that could not contain my aspirations. Gaza was home, family, memories, but it had never truly been a place of stability or possibility.
The war stripped us even of the luxury of dreaming. Within days, the crossing — our only way out — was shut down. Electricity was cut. The internet became a faint signal that sometimes appeared at night. We would sit by the window or on a corner of the rooftop searching for reception. I could neither continue my work nor pursue opportunities that required stability, connection, and focus.
My family and I were displaced more than once to hospitals and schools without a plan, bags, or documents. Our neighborhood was bombed twice in the first month of the war, and five of my siblings and nephews were seriously injured.
Our destroyed neighborhood. Photo: Amal Alkhatib
Amid all this fear, my two brothers, Hasan and Abdulrahman, were abroad. They followed the news obsessively, calling to check on us, consumed with worry and powerless to help.
Three months into the war, my brothers began insisting that we leave. For them, it was the only way to ensure we would be somewhere safer — somewhere we could begin thinking about a more stable future. When talk of the crossing resurfaced, it felt like a small raft in an ocean of helplessness. The required sums were staggering: $7,000, $10,000, even $11,000 per person. We recalculated every night. The answer was always the same: not enough.
At the beginning of 2024, we launched a fundraising campaign. I still remember the first donation. It was not large, but it made the idea feel possible. Every notification on my phone felt like a small chance at survival.
When the construction began on the Netzarim corridor barrier, the danger came closer to our area. We were forced to evacuate to schools, until the schools themselves came under threat and the entire area had to be cleared. That moment made the idea of leaving even more urgent for my brothers.
A school that Amal’s family evacuated to. Photo: Amal Alkhatib
After raising $7,000 in February, my brother suggested that my sister and I leave first. Waiting to gather the full amount would take too long, and someone needed to reach safety and resume work to help support the rest. Logically, it made sense: We leave to help those who stay. But my heart kept asking a different question: Would they survive after I did? I contributed my savings to bring the total to $10,000. At the end of March, my brother Hasan traveled from Sweden to Egypt to register our names and pay the amount in cash under strict conditions. It took weeks of security coordination and daily waiting outside the “Hala” company office, surrounded by hundreds of others trying to save their families.
While we waited, some of the people waiting for their names, just like us, were killed. Every night, I would check the list and imagine my name being erased before it was ever called.
Even preparing a suitcase was a challenge. The markets had no luggage, and we needed an extra bag. Eventually, we found a man sewing suitcases out of curtain fabric. I remember staring at it and wondering: Is this really the bag for a new beginning?
This wasn’t the first time I was leaving Gaza. In 2018, when I was a student, I had experienced departure in a very different context. But nothing in that experience resembled this moment; what had once felt difficult and unfamiliar now turned into something absolute, where leaving was no longer an opportunity, but a forced rupture.
On the morning of travel, I could not hold my mother’s gaze for long. I was afraid my composure would collapse. The embrace lasted longer than usual, yet there were no tears. We behaved as if this were temporary and we would see each other again in a week. On the road from Nuseirat to Rafah, I pressed myself against the car window. The streets whose details I had memorized since childhood were unrecognizable. We passed through Khan Younis. The rubble seemed to outweigh the buildings still standing.
I lifted my phone and began recording. I am not sure why, perhaps to convince myself that this was real. I had bought the phone a week before the war and deleted the photos from my old one, believing I was making space for a more beautiful archive of memories. I did not know my new gallery would become an archive of destruction.
The ruins of Khan Younis taken through a moving car window. Photo: Amal Alkahtib
We arrived at the Palestinian side of the crossing at 7 a.m. My father sat beside us in silence. After our passports were stamped, we remained seated for hours, waiting for our names to be called to move to the Egyptian hall. At that moment, we didn’t even dare take a photo together. My sister managed to snap one of my father and me as we began moving with the suitcase.
When our names were finally called around noon, we walked forward with heavy steps. We boarded the bus. I turned to look for my father, but he was no longer there. I understood that he had stepped away so I would not see him cry. That moment broke something inside me. I looked back at Gaza one last time, and we moved on.
Everyone on the bus carried the same weight: longing even before departure, apprehension about what lay ahead, and fear for those left behind.
We stopped at a rest station to eat. The idea of sitting in a restaurant and eating a full meal, after seven months of war and hunger, felt unreal.
The first chicken meal after seven months. Photo: Amal Alkhatib
I had imagined that moment many times during the war. But when it arrived, I felt no joy. Survivor’s guilt had begun early.
As we entered Cairo at dawn, I looked at the tall buildings, the illuminated billboards, and the steady rhythm of traffic. Public transportation functioned normally, something that had become nearly impossible during the war.
How could life move with such order while my country lay in ruins? I felt estranged not only from the place, but from the world itself.
I returned to work quickly to support my family financially and distract myself, filling my days with meetings and deadlines. The news remained open on my screen. I worked with one eye and followed the bombardment with the other, my mind split between two realities.
Even when my sister and I hung out, we were soon scrolling through updates in silence. Joy felt like a luxury we did not yet deserve. I asked myself repeatedly: Why did I leave when others could not? Do I deserve this chance more than they do? Would I see my family and friends again?
Those fears became reality. Both of my sisters lost their husbands, one in August, four months after we left, and the other in January. Even now, I cannot fully process their absence. In my memory, they are still in our house, their laughter filling the rooms. I believe many who lose loved ones while abroad carry this same suspended grief. For those of us who left, there is no luxury of sorrow. We left not just to survive, but to shoulder the responsibility for our people back home.
Sometimes it feels larger than me.
My residency status in Egypt was another layer that hindered both adaptation and access to opportunities. I remember when I returned to work, the HR manager asked for my residency documents to proceed with a new contract. I sent a copy of my passport and entry stamp. He asked what type of residency I held. I paused. I do not have refugee status, nor do I fall under a clearly defined legal category. This is so even though I had entered legally; I paid the fees and crossed through official procedures.
Despite my explanation that I was displaced by war, like thousands of Gazans now in Egypt, he questioned whether I had entered irregularly. How could I be legal when paying, yet invisible when settling?
Without residency, I cannot easily apply for visas elsewhere. I cannot open a bank account. I am legal enough to cross, but not legal enough to build a life. This contradiction has obstructed many opportunities for stability and has created deep uncertainty for nearly every Gazan displaced to Egypt.
They say the war has ended. Yet bombardment continues. Gaza remains vast rubble. My friends still live in tents. Fear of another escalation lingers. The idea of returning frightens me. War reshaped our psychology; it bound the idea of home to trauma. I did not fear death there, but I feared the slow suffocation of life within me.
And abroad, what awaits me as a Palestinian? The status of Palestinians in Egypt is complex and uncertain. That uncertainty has deepened the tension within me — and within many others like me.
Now I live between two fires: a homeland I know but that is broken, and an exile that does not reject me yet does not embrace me. Sometimes I feel my identity hangs on a visa stamp in my passport. I carry Gaza within me wherever I go, but I do not know where I can safely plant my roots.
Displacement did not end at the crossing. It continues in daily questions, in my anxiety about tomorrow. Gaza continues to redefine our lives, whether we left or remained. Since October 7, I have been searching for stability. And the longing for a secure future remains unfulfilled.
