we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
“Why are we not allowed to fly kites? Do they own the sky too?”
A child trying to fly his kite on the beach, Khan Younis, April 2026. Photo: Roaa Alaa
A few days ago Israel’s Defense Minister announced that every launch from Gaza will be viewed as an act of war—including flying kites. Is it possible now that one of my fondest childhood activities is considered an act of war?
I grew up in a small town southeast of Khan Younis called Abassan, just 6 kilometers from the fence—a barrier made of metal fencing, wire mesh, barbed wire, and concrete barriers—that separated Israel from Gaza. When we returned to Abassan during the first ceasefire, the fence had been transformed into a high concrete wall. When I was a child, the closer you walked toward the fence, the more the town gave way to open fields where we could play.
Unlike other places in the Gaza Strip, which are crowded, noisy, and bustling with life, my hometown was quiet and peaceful. My friends from the city would make fun of this and say it’s a place perfectly suited for the elderly. But that hides the fact that it’s one of the most beautiful places in Gaza. It was a privilege to grow up there but it came with a cost: Abassan was among the first areas to experience displacement during this genocide, and it is currently located behind the Yellow Line, which is now under Israeli military control, leaving us no way to go home.
When school ended and summer break began, the fields and open land were ours to explore. Flying kites was at the heart of our summer activities.
My mother used to help us make them. We would gather pieces of wood from the trees around our house, especially the fallen branches of palm trees, then use a knife to carve and shape them into the form we wanted. After that, we would bring out old plastic shopping bags and string to begin the hardest part—getting the kite shaped just right so it would actually fly. Buying a ready-made kite was out of the question. Although they came in brighter colors, they were made entirely of cheap, lightweight plastic and wouldn’t survive the wind or our rough, eager hands.
As soon as we finished making the kites, my cousins, brother, and I raced toward the nearby fields. We would choose the middle of the day when our families were taking their afternoon naps and the field owners were nowhere around to shoo us away. I was the only girl among a group of boys, and I got used to running around barefoot, just as they did. I couldn’t stand the thought of them making fun of me for wearing flip-flops. As soon as we arrived, we would launch our kites. I was a competitor they respected—barefoot and sending my kite farther than theirs and keeping it in the air until we were done playing. The prickly thorns under my feet were a difficult part of the experience, but the joy of looking up at the sky and seeing my kite soaring made me forget the discomforts.
During the summer break, we would also drive to the beach, where we would see many children flying kites. But while the other children flew theirs, we were usually busy swimming. We were lucky enough to have open spaces where we could fly our kites whenever we wanted. The other children had grown up in the city and in crowded camps, surrounded by tall buildings, so the beach was often their only chance to fly them.
Later, as we grew older, we simply stopped flying kites.
In 2022, I took part in an event for children and young people celebrating International Women’s Day. The activity was kite flying. My friends struggled to keep their kites in the air and some failed and eventually gave up. Mine, however, was the only one that stayed up from the beginning of the event until the very end. When everyone applauded, I felt I wasn’t showing off. I was simply a daughter of Abassan who learned to fly kites in its fields. They were children of the city and the camps. My body and my kite felt like one and so I could easily keep it in the air.
The writer flying her kite on Gaza beach to celebrate International Women’s Day, March 2022. (Photo: Roa Alaa)
We were forced to leave our home to live in three different tent communities. While I was grieving the loss of my home and hometown, one of the few things that brought me comfort was seeing children playing with kites, refusing adult help and proudly making them by themselves. They had become remarkably good at it. It became normal for one of them to suddenly appear at our tent and ask, “Auntie, have you seen a kite fall into the tent?” Those same kites could often be seen over the sea.
When Israeli Defense Minister Katz announced the ban on kites, I didn’t believe it at first. Our neighbor in the camp told us about it and warned us to tell the children not to fly them anymore. “They’re afraid of kites? There’s no way this is real.” I laughed but later I found out that the statement was real. Then I heard an angry child ask, “Why are we not allowed to fly kites? Do they own the sky too?” Most children don’t understand what the word “occupation” means. They don’t understand the words “repression” or “apartheid,” but they do understand what it means to have someone take away their loaf of bread, their school, and even their right to play. Recently a friend called me. I asked her what she was doing these days. She said, “Nothing much except convincing children not to fly kites.”
Flying kites is much more than just a childhood game though. For Palestinian children, the sky can carry very different meanings. Planes are associated with warplanes rather than with the planes that carry people from one place to another. Kites, however, made the sky feel peaceful and safe. In addition, kites gave us a sense of the freedom we were denied. A kite could soar high in the sky without seeming to have limits or borders a stark contrast to our lives, confined to small patches of land in crowded tent communities.
We used to sing a song when we were children: “Oh, how I wish I were a kite, made from strings and paper, so I could see the orange grove, my little trees, the ones that were burned.”
It’s strange that now whenever I want to write or talk about kites I use the past tense as if they belong to an era we can’t return to. When I look at photos of kites flying I feel a sense of loss and grief, the same feeling I’ve had whenever I’ve lost something or someone I loved.
