we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Once a place of triumph and hope, the Al-Nasr neighborhood turned into a living hell overnight.
September 2025: People leave Al-Nasr after receiving IDF evacuation orders. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona
I grew up in Al-Nasr and have spent many years exploring its streets and living among the people that walk through them. My earliest memories inhabit this neighborhood. It is the place I think of when people speak of a homeland.
Since October 7, 2023, Al-Nasr has become one of the most dangerous places in the world.
On the evening of September 19, 2025, the Israeli Defense Forces dropped leaflets ordering the evacuation of Al-Nasr. The decision to save our lives was a mandate, not a choice. But how? We were imprisoned not only by quadcopter missiles generating strange new sounds but also trapped by a wall of impossibilities.
To stay in the neighborhood meant risking death, but leaving was like a complex mathematical equation involving many difficult factors, each requiring more than just one solution. Leaving during the day made us easy targets, and escaping at night meant a leap into the unknown. The routes were long and dangerous, and movements were continuously observed.
The most agonizing aspect of our predicament was the “price” of survival. As everything fell apart, the cost of a “ticket” out—US$2,000 or more for a truck to take us away—rose to unthinkable heights. Survival became a matter of money. Ready cash made all the difference between staying under bombardment or chasing a safe place that might not even exist. My life and the lives of my family had become commodities with a price tag I could not afford. I felt helpless.
We had no choice but to stay at home and risk another night under bombardment. It was the most brutal night I had experienced since the start of the conflict. I say this without exaggeration.
Danger was all around us. It came from every direction and many sources. Whole neighborhoods were destroyed as the Israeli army’s killer robots were detonated in nearby streets. The night mutated into an artificial day as flames engulfed the sky and the streets were painted with blood. Shells screamed down on us, trembling the foundations of the house and leaving a death knell ringing in my ears forever.
The drones were the worst. Their sounds tore at my soul and made me feel I was stuck in an endless horror movie. Drones are machines made to instill fear and break minds. Designed to spy on people, they also torment us with the creepy, ghostly noises they project overhead. At midnight, the sound of a rooster crowing would abruptly transform into a baby’s cry, which was then followed by murmuring and indistinguishable voices.
These uncanny noises reminded us that death wasn’t always created by a sudden explosion. Rather, death could occur slowly; it might come from something lurking just out of sight, something waiting for the right moment to strike. The drones’ constant presence reminded us of our vulnerability. Death was also hovering.
That night, I believed I wouldn’t see the sun rise the next day. The sound of each explosion might signify the last I would hear. I cradled my siblings in my arms, fearing that these would be our final moments together. I said prayers under my breath. A peculiar combination of resignation and fear flowed through my veins like poison.
My cat in my tent—a moment of calm and tenderness amid the destruction. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona
The next morning, as a ray of light broke through the dust-covered glass, I realized I was still alive. It was like being born again, except into a more brutal world. It was the start of yet another painful journey.
Eventually the bus that would transport us showed up. My face was streaming with tears as I boarded. They were tears of heartbreak rather than of terror. My father was born and had grown up in the house I was now leaving. I knew in my heart that I might never come back. I cried because the debris before me might be the last thing left of my entire former existence.
I wasn’t alone in my sadness. Everyone on the bus was pale-faced with sorrowful, sunken eyes full of loss and suffering. Entire worlds were being left behind as everyone fled with only a small bag containing the remains of their lives. My pain was exacerbated by witnessing the pain of others.
Escape was a surrender to an imperial force that demanded we give up everything we held dear. It was not merely a defeat to the adversary, but also a defeat of the human mind.
This is our narrative. Ours is the story of being uprooted, of heartbreaking terror, and of eerie noises that still reverberate in our ears. Ours is the tale of a people whose homeland and memories were sacrificed in order to save themselves.
We left our homes with the knowledge that coming back would be like traveling to a different planet. Our childhoods are buried beneath the ruins. Our kids’ most vivid recollections are the sound of drones.
This is a battle against our most basic humanity, not just against our land.
