we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The fairy tale characters I feared as a child have turned into F-16 jets and quadcopters.
An Israel-manufactured armed drone. Screenshot, Elbit Systems video, fair use
When I was a child, my parents would tell my sister, brother, and me stories every night at bedtime. If we were tired and ready to go to sleep, they would tell us soothing stories and wish us sweet dreams with a kiss on the forehead.
If we were rowdy and not ready for sleep, or if they wanted us to go to bed early so we could wake up early, they would tell us stories full of fear, horror, and wonder — tales involving characters such as Abu Rajul Masloukha, a man with a flayed leg who would beat naughty children, Al-Ghoula, a monstrous creature that lurked in the shadows, and the Sheikh of the Rain, a ghostly figure who arrived with the sound of wind and rain and urged us to fall asleep.
The stories were scary, but our parents would lie next to us and hug us until we calmed down and fell asleep. Over the years, the characters in these stories became embedded in my imagination. I saw them in the shadows under my bed and heard them as whispers in the dark. Now that I am adult, I can see that these bedtime fairy tales reflect the truth of our existence in Gaza — a truth shaped by uncertainty in a place where the boundaries between safety and danger are fragile.
Stories about Abu Rajul Masloukha coming for disobedient children used to terrify me. I was afraid that if I made a mistake or disobeyed my parents, this monster would come for me, beat me, and take my leg to replace its own flayed one.
That fear, baked into me as a child, came to life on October 20, 2023, when armored and armed Israeli soldiers stormed Tel Al-Hawa, my neighborhood in northern Gaza, dragged a neighbor and his wife from their beds in the dead of night, and then arrested and tortured them. The Abu Rajul Masloukha that once lived in my imagination now had a human form, but its purpose was not to make me a better person or to get me to go to bed; it was to instill fear and control, and to remind me that I am never truly safe.
In the stories, Al-Ghoula roams the skies, ready to kidnap children who misbehaved. While I no longer fear Al-Ghoula, I know there are monsters in the sky that can harm me and even bring death at any moment. Until the ceasefire on January 19, 2025, Israeli military quadcopters constantly circled overhead, their red and green lights flashing, waiting to kill or harm anyone without warning.
Growing up, the Sheikh of the Rain was just the sound of the winds or thunder. Before the ceasefire, the roar in Gaza’s skies came from the F-16 jets that flew over us every night, raining down bombs instead of life-giving water. Their thunderous booms shook the earth and shattered the silence of our nights. Unlike the Sheikh of the Rain, they did not come to help us sleep; they came to ensure that some of us never wake up. The destruction they brought was not a tale to frighten children, but a daily reality, leaving behind rubble, ash, and death.
As a child, I feared monsters because they might come for me at night. As an adult, I fear them because they already have. In this war, the monsters had names, uniforms, and machinery. They didn’t hide in the shadows or under our beds; they came at any hour of the day.
Israeli Air Force F-16 fighter jets. Photo: Davidi Vardi, Creative Commons 2.5
On the evening of July 12, 2024, my family was sitting in our tent, illuminated by the light of a LED lamp whose battery we would recharge with solar power. Suddenly, my mum exclaimed: “Ya Allah! Al-Ghoula is coming.” My younger sister did not understand that she meant either an armed quadcopter or surveillance drone. Her face filled with wonder, and her wide eyes mirrored the fear she felt as she asked me if Al-Ghoula was real. I wanted to laugh and to tell her that Al-Ghoula was not real, but how could I when we could all hear them circling overhead?
I hesitated, torn between preserving my sister’s innocence and making her face reality. Eventually, our mum answered her question. “Al-Ghoula does not exist, but the things it represents do.” My sister did not want to understand and neither did I. How could children comprehend that the monsters of the stories our parents told us had taken new forms — and were now dropping bombs or shooting bullets, and shattering lives?
I now see how these stories from my childhood prepared me for life in Gaza. They taught me that monsters exist, even if they don’t look the way we expect. They taught me that fear is real; but so is courage. These scary stories helped me build the strength to endure and survive. As my mum once told me, “You can confront and overcome the shadows you dread. Monsters only hold power if you give it to them.”
Now I see cracks in the monsters. Soldiers can kill us, but they cannot kill our dreams. Drones that buzz overhead are loud but they cannot silence the songs we sing in defiance. Warplanes can destroy our homes, but they cannot destroy our memories of laughter, love, and home.
One song I remember begins, “There’s a hope just waiting for you in the dark.” I see this song come to life in the children who play amid the rubble and in the graffiti scrawled on destroyed walls where Handala stands firm holding the key of return with the hashtag “Free Palestine.”
Because I listened to these stories at bedtime when I was a child, I know how to calm myself down and drift off to sleep even when I am afraid. I no longer have the warmth of my parents’ hugs to comfort me; instead, I cover my ears firmly with my hands to dampen the sounds of explosions, ignore them, relax, and fall asleep.
Those stories have helped me and my family find a common language to talk about the war, confront the horror of the unknown and find strength in adversity. When my mother cried out, “Ya Allah! Al–Ghoula is coming,” we knew what she meant. The caution I developed as a child to prevent Al-Ghoula from coming for me has helped me survive the war. Whenever I hear the sound of a quadcopter, I close my eyes and remain calm and alert, careful not to make a wrong move, knowing that even the smallest misstep can be fatal.
Now that the killing and destruction have stopped, my only wish is that the monsters I have faced will remain nothing but a haunting memory. If I live to see my children, I hope I will not have to tell them stories of monsters to prepare them for life in Gaza. I hope the stories they will need to grow up will be stories of resistance and hope.
