we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Throughout 18 months of displacement, and miles of walking between cities and refugee camps, I wore the same painful shoes.
The shoes of my dreams. Photo: Sojoud Alkhour
At the end of November 2023, my family was forced to leave our home in the northern Gaza Strip when occupation forces demanded the evacuation of residents to areas they (falsely) claimed were safe.
We heard the sounds of shelling grow louder as buildings were bombed. Then some of the walls of our house cracked and windows collapsed. Under bombardment and fire belts, we headed south on foot. The sky was gray from rising columns of smoke that followed explosions. We were surrounded by destruction in every direction. Mountains of rubble replaced villagers and their homes.
I left everything behind: toys, childhood drawings that hung on the walls, and the living room where every evening our family had gathered to talk and laugh until l fell asleep on the sofa.
We left with nothing but the clothes we were wearing and phones that couldn’t receive signals. On my feet were a pair of gray and white fabric shoes that were already worn out. Every step was agony and I was quickly exhausted.
After walking several kilometers, I began crying in the street. I cried so much, not only because we were leaving everything we knew but also because of the pain of walking in those shoes. Because of the endless throbbing in my feet I momentarily wished that, instead of leaving for the south, I had died in northern Gaza.
We stayed in the south for a year and a half, first in a school that served as a shelter for displaced people, and then in a tent. Both were filled with suffering and hardship. Throughout these months, I kept wearing the same painful shoes. I held onto them because shoes were extremely expensive. The occupiers closed the crossings and blocked goods, including shoes, from entering Gaza. It was almost impossible to buy new shoes. Even used shoes were very expensive.
Once I had loved walking with my friends. I’d be wearing my white Nike sneakers. We would meet every evening in the park, then walk for hours through the city streets, past shops and quiet alleys, talking and laughing without ever feeling tired. But now I could only dream of wearing comfortable white sports shoes.
After all the suffering, pain, and separation in the south, news came that we would be allowed to return to the north. My thoughts raced: I will return to my home! Our family will gather in the living room to laugh and talk. I will wear my beautiful clothes. I will look out of my bedroom window every morning at the colorful rooftops, the narrow cobblestone streets below, and the lively neighborhood kids playing soccer.
Suddenly these thoughts crashed into one painful question: How will I get back to northern Gaza wearing these worn-out shoes? I would look at them and cry, but then I tried to comfort myself by thinking they were a memory from the north and I should be grateful for them. After all, many people were walking barefoot or wearing shoes they had made from wood, fabric, and nails.
In January 2025, we packed our things to return to northern Gaza. Full of joy and excitement, we wanted to see our partially destroyed home. I carried my bag, wore my brown jacket and those worn-out shoes, and we began walking toward the north. The streets had been destroyed. Now they were filled with rubble and piles of debris. Walking was even more difficult than before.
We walked from the city of Khan Younis to the city of Deir Al-Balah. It took a whole day to reach Deir Al-Balah. My feet became badly swollen. I had to stop frequently to rest from exhaustion. I covered my eyes with my hands — because of the dust and because I was crying, too. My older sister kept telling me lovingly, “Sujoud, we are almost there, just a little more.” But I knew we still had far to go. I looked up at the sky and said, “Oh God, why did this happen to us?” and I cried again. Then I would think of our home and the shoes I would buy one day, and I would stand up and keep walking.
When we were only a short distance from our home, my shoes started to tear open. I dropped the bags I was carrying and cried from pain that felt like knives cutting into my feet. How would I keep going?
My sister said, “Come on, Sujood, you are stronger than this. We will reach home. Stand up, don’t cry.”
She held my red, sore hands and helped me up. When we finally reached our home, I soaked my feet in cold water because they were badly swollen and burning. I slept for eight hours straight.
Later, my friend called and invited me to go out for our favorite shawarma. I told her, “I don’t want to go out until I buy new shoes.” My mother went to buy me a pair, but the crossings were still closed and prices were extremely high. The shoes I liked cost 350 shekels — the equivalent of $100 US. My mother returned and said, “Sujood, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t buy you shoes because they are very expensive.”
I had to wear my younger sister’s shoes to go out. They were too small and caused even more pain. My feet became badly swollen. Every time I went out felt like a battle with my shoes.
Eight long months later I saw a Facebook post saying that trucks loaded with clothes and shoes had entered Gaza, I searched online and finally found the white sports shoes I had always dreamed of. They cost 200 shekels (nearer to $60 US), and I quickly went to a merchant’s truck and bought them.
Now that I walk comfortably, I look forward to walking with my friends. In Gaza, even the simplest dreams are hard to achieve, but they mean so much.
