we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Insects swarm in the unsanitary conditions of displacement and leave few unscathed from nightly bites and stings.
My cousin’s two-year-old daughter, Shatha, keeps waking up in the middle of the night crying and scratching her limbs. Photo: Duha Hassan Al Shaqaqi
Mornings differ from one day to another, but they all impose a kind of torture on our lives. We either wake up to a series of airstrikes that make our hearts jump out of our bodies, or we wake up with swollen bites on our hands and legs. We do some scratching, then get up to start another stressful day.
Flies come to visit as soon as the morning light appears. We try to wave them away, cover our faces and bodies, but all goes in vain. It’s time to wake up — according to the flies.
We hang the mattresses and blankets outside. We shake them deeply — every layer, every fold — to make sure they’re insect-free. When it’s time to sleep, we shake everything before we sleep, but still, fleas find their way to us.
They hide in our clothes and blankets. I wake up in the middle of the night feeling something move between my skin and clothes. I try to catch it, but it quickly disappears. When I see the red, swollen bites covering my skin, I feel a deep sense of shame. This doesn’t look like a girl’s skin — it’s rough, scarred, and worn. I often find myself comparing it to the girls I see on social media, waking up to their soft routines, gently applying layers of skincare products. I used to be one of them. I remember that version of my life — when I moisturized my hands just because I liked the smell.
To some, that might seem like a luxury. But to me, it was a way of saying to my body: I love you. I care for you.
Now, I live in a place where critical operations are done without anesthesia. Skincare is no longer part of my routine — survival is.
Everyone in the camp talks about mosquitoes while scratching their limbs. They compare bites and show each other the scars. The old ladies never stop sharing their homemade remedies — burn mint before bed, splash vinegar on your body, place a basil leaf near your head. The list goes on. Each recipe is passed like a secret weapon in this endless war with invisible enemies.
Before I even open my eyes, I feel them, the bites. Swollen, red, and hot against my skin. I run my fingers over the bumps, resisting the urge to scratch. If I give in, they’ll leave marks that last long after the itching fades. Photo: Duha Hassan Al Shaqaqi
These recipes sometimes work, sometimes they don’t. It depends on the night, the insect, the air. We still try them anyway — because doing something feels better than doing nothing. It gives us the illusion of control, a tiny hope that maybe tonight we’ll sleep without waking up bleeding from a bite.
My nightly routine has changed completely. Before sleeping, I splash every inch of my body with vinegar, not moisturisers, burn a paper of mint next to my pillow, shake the blanket and the mattress, and then cover my whole body with a blanket.
I can’t leave my cup of coffee uncovered even for a second — if I do, it ends up filled with flies, their tiny bodies drowning in it. When we cook, I have to assign one of my siblings a specific job: waving the flies away. Otherwise, they’ll be all over the food, as if they’re meant to share our meals. We constantly check and recheck to make sure everything is covered — pots, plates, even spoons. It’s both exhausting and irritating.
This isn’t a metaphor. We really do share our meals with flies. They’re everywhere, especially in the heat. And the tent, made of plastic and nylon, traps that heat inside like an oven. It creates the perfect environment for flies to gather and multiply. No matter how careful we are, they always find their way back.
I opened my laptop to write an assignment, but the flies swarmed toward the screen, drawn to its light, and made it impossible to type a single word. Photo: Duha Hassan Al Shaqaqi
The real and main reason for all of this is the absence of a sewage system and proper sanitation. The land where displaced people have put their tents was never meant to support such a large number of people or meet their daily needs. In most cases, the land used to be empty spaces or farmland. Next to each tent, there’s a single shallow hole in the ground. It’s used as a drainage point for everything — shower water, dishwashing water, and anything else that needs to be poured out. These holes are unorganized, poorly made, and surrounded by filth. The smell spreads quickly, waste seeps into the ground, and insects gather in swarms. No matter how much we try to stay clean or keep our food safe, the environment itself is contaminated.
We suffer from the biggest and tiniest things on earth — from the roar of airstrikes that shake the ground beneath us to the silent bite of a mosquito in the middle of the night. Before all of this, I used to sleep with a fan humming in the corner, protected by a screen on the window and a closed door. Mosquitoes were a seasonal nuisance, nothing more. I had a bottle of moisturizer on my desk, and a soft towel folded at the foot of my bed. Garbage went into bins. It was taken away. Water flowed clean from the faucet, and toilets flushed without thought.
This isn’t just a glimpse into how displaced people live in the camps — it’s a glimpse into how we are losing the battle for health, for dignity, and sometimes even for our sanity.
