we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
On Fridays in Gaza, the lovely sounds of family mealtime compete with the buzzing of Israeli drones.
The grapevines that survived the 2014 attack and that used to shade the family at Friday meals. Photo: Rania Tawfiq
Fridays in Gaza are special, sacred and a relief: a time when I can slow down, feeling calm in the Mediterranean breeze. This is how I want all of my Fridays to be.
On Fridays, my entire family gathers around the white polygon dining table that has been in my family since childhood, which is always covered by a flowered tablecloth.
Everyone leaves their work outside, and joins together for a family reunion. Now is a time that we can check in with each other. We trade news from the week. My brother Ahmed makes us laugh with his jokes. Fridays are filled with laughter that comes from deep within our hearts.
My great grandfather always has important life lessons and experiences to share. He emphasizes how important it is for us to learn English and plan for a better future. He is always reminding us that he wants better for us.
Fridays include a delicious Palestinian meal of maqlouba prepared by my mother. Each ingredient gets my mother’s attention: rice, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, meat, and special spices that are fragrant and fresh. When she stirs the pot, I always find myself being pulled into the kitchen to get closer to the delicious scents.
Each family member has a task for dinner: My kind brother Mahmoud brings soft drinks from the market, I fetch our white plates and spoons. My only sister Nour pulls chairs up to the table, and we position ourselves close to my mother, at the head of the table.
As we scoop the food from the steaming platter, I hear music in the clinking sounds made by the plates. Even the sound of my mother’s maqlouba being served is special and loving.
After our meal, we sit together to sip tea and at apples and oranges picked fresh from the trees. Sometimes we are surprised with a freshly baked chocolate cake prepared with my mother’s own hands. We argue over a newly released film or book, mainly with my brother Mohammed. We often talk about world news and debate how it will impact us.
Some of my most favorite Friday memories are of the days spent with my Great Uncle Saleh and Auntie Wedad, who were filled with tenderness and compassion. They spent time with us picking sweet, juicy grapes from the vines near their roof. I collected as many grapes as I could hold in my arms and took them inside to eat while they were still fresh; others we squeezed into juice or saved for later to share with our friends and neighbors.
At night, my siblings and I stayed up talking and looking at the sky, watching the stars twinkling between the grapes on the vines. We each tried to count the stars, but we always got lost and had to start over. In the summer, the grape vines were still and the stars made the grapes look like they were twinkling. At night, we would snuggle together and enjoy each other’s warmth, while appreciating the beauty around us.
Some nights, I read stories to my family or reported the news, like a journalist, with a microphone made of paper. How I long to be shelterd by our grape vines again!
This is how I want all of my Fridays to be.
However, recently, we had a different kind of Friday. On August 5, 2022, I was abruptly reminded how Fridays in Gaza are not the same as they are for people in many other parts of the world.
On that Friday night, I was deep into reading the Arabic novel, The Bearer of the Purple Rose. Suddenly, without warning, the calm breeze was disturbed by a sound like thunder, swiftly transforming into hurricane-like wind. The walls and doors of our home trembled violently. The shrieking sounds of Israeli zananas filled the air.
A zanana is an armed Israeli military drone that makes an agitating humming sound as it conducts surveillance over Gaza. Its voice rises madly at times, but it always sounds like an electric generator buzzing nonstop. Whenever a zanana is overhead, the sound penetrates my mind and distracts me. It feels like it’s on top of my head. I try to shut out the sound by closing the windows and putting on headphones, but it never goes away. It is a constant reminder that my movements, my sleep, my words and my family are under watch.
So on that Friday, when we heard the sounds like thunder and the zanana, I jolted up and dropped my book. I rushed to my family and we searched the news on our phones. The tension was broken with exclamations of What!! Why!!! Which family??
Our happy, light Friday was gone. The smile on my mother’s face was now a frown of anxiety and stress. We gathered in our family room to figure out how to best protect ourselves. Each of us starts to predict, analyze and plan for the next rocket. We all know that nothing is predictable when you live under Israeli occupation.
Grapevines that grew under the care and attention of the author’s Uncle Saleh. The author reports that her uncle has departed this life but “he left the grapevines behind to remind us he is with us forever.” Photo: Rania Tawfiq
During the 2014 Israeli attack on Gaza, we were forced to leave our home. We walked without a destination and carried whatever we could hold. During that journey, I kept my eyes fixed on my loved ones, thinking about how to protect them as Israeli zananas and missiles zipped over our heads. Each step felt like an hour, a month, a year.
After two months, we returned to our home to find our kitchen missing a wall. Through the hole, I could see my Uncle Saleh’s scorched roof.
I looked for the grapevines; they were dry and wilting, but still alive. Beside them, all the green berry trees were gone, leaving no trace behind.
Since that attack, we do not stay up late outside on Fridays. We do not search for the twinkling stars in the sky from underneath the grapes as we used to. We cannot find shade under the berry trees anymore.
Due to the damage to our home, we no longer see our reflections in the mirrors hanging on the walls. Now we see the reflections of the remaining debris.
What we cook now does not taste the same as it did in our first kitchen. I wish I had taken 1,000 pictures throughout the years, preserving my sweetest Friday memories. Now, all of my pictures are intentional, never just on a whim.
On Friday August 5, 2022, we survived three days and nights without sleep and in total fear. By day 3, the waiting ended and somehow we were still alive.
I survived this attack. But what kind of survival is this? I am 23 years old, and I have survived six such assaults so far.
My own survival depends on my country surviving, the trees and grapevines of Gaza surviving, and the Palestinian people surviving. I vow to live to experience better Fridays when I am free, unafraid and respected as a Palestinian woman.
