we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
How I became a jack-of-all-trades, working through fire, death, and ruins.
Little by little, “The Baker” has become my nickname. Photo: Omar Eid
Have you ever wondered who the “jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none” is? It’s me!
As a child in Gaza, my dreams were endless and innocent. At school, teachers always asked us, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I always wanted to dive deep into the world of programming. At that moment, hope was my inheritance. It was all I had. I grew up and spent years training in information technology at university, feeling this dream within my grasp.
Between 2021 and 2023, I also studied business administration, and within just a year, I succeeded in combining my passions as the head of the social media management team for Golden Media, a Gaza company that specializes in managing social media pages for clients outside the Gaza Strip.
At age 25, I had made a real step toward a brighter future. However, in Gaza, dreams are shattered by bombs and are replaced by necessity. I never imagined I’d become a street vendor, shouting prices over the noise of drones. Or a taxi driver navigating rubble instead of roads. Or a baker using a mud oven.
I was moving toward a promotion at Golden Media. Then, on Oct. 7, 2023, war broke out.
When the evacuation orders came, my family and I fled to my grandmother’s house at Al-Nuseirat camp in the middle of the Gaza Strip. That evening, we lay next to each other, and while I wrestled with my thoughts, I finally dozed off.
The next morning, I had to communicate with angry clients, whose businesses were affected by the internet outages I was experiencing. I looked for an eSIM card to buy, which allowed me to continue doing some work.
On Dec. 22, 2023, the heartbreaking news came. My coworker and friend, Mohammad Abu Kmail, was martyred, followed by the company manager, Ayyoub Abu Labda.
Thus, work stopped, and I lost my job instead of gaining a promotion.
In grief, jobless, and without income, anxiety took hold of me.
One day, while opening up to my closest friend Alaa, he joked, “Looks like the only thing left for you is to set up a street stall.” We laughed. Little did I know that joke would soon become my reality. I tried to find a much different path.
One day, my older brother suggested that we repair his car that had been damaged by the bombings and work together as taxi drivers. It cost a lot to repair, but we saw no other choice.
Our taxi. Photo: Omar Eid
After two months of working under the threat of losing our lives, when we were trying to feel even the smallest sense of normalcy, border crossings were closed by Israel, and everything was banned from entering. As a result, fuel prices skyrocketed, and gas became scarce. It was no longer possible to continue driving a taxi.
The stress of trying to provide for my family was overwhelming. I am one of seven siblings and my father passed away when we were young. My three brothers and I understood early that we had to step in, not just emotionally, but financially.
I tried hard to find another job, but all I could hear were Alaa’s words echoing in my head: “Your only option is a street stall.”
I resisted the idea, wanting a position with more prestige. Now, however, status was no longer a concern. Hunger was.
I swallowed my pride.
In May 2024, I connected with some food traders, invested the little money I had, and started selling food and juice products.
Our street vendor business. Photo Omar Eid
The street was full of vendors like me; each carried his own burden, but we shared the same battle. Next to me was a seller who confided that he was a lawyer. Another had once owned a chain of stores, which had been destroyed.
Obstacles arose daily as the traders imposed different prices for goods. But, we learned to live in a world where nothing was stable.
Death and horror were constantly with us even in our simple stalls.
On June 8, 2024, while I was sitting with my brother Jihad in our stall, hell broke loose.
Jets bombarded several houses within moments of each other. Tanks struck randomly and drones fired bullets over people’s heads. The smell of gunpowder mixed with dust in the air. Blood was flowing on the ground.
Everyone was running around with no clear destination, leaving everything behind. It seemed like the end of the world.
The Israeli army was just a street away, conducting an operation to free hostages held by Al-Qassam Brigades. We started to run through the choking dust. Meanwhile, our two other brothers were also somewhere in the market. We tried in vain to find them. Then, the phone rang. It was my younger brother. He and my other brother were stuck in an alley, surrounded by heavy shelling, and couldn’t get out. We rushed to find them. I grabbed Jihad by the shoulder and said without thinking, “Whatever happens, don’t stop. If I fall, you keep running.”
We found our brothers, and by sheer luck, the shelling paused briefly. We ran home as fast as we could. Together, through shattered streets and against all odds, we made it home alive.
After the situation calmed down, I realized I had lost my stall.
I sank into despair for weeks, but something inside me refused to surrender.
I knew I had to find a new path.
Since the closure of the last crossing, 60 days prior, the bakeries had stopped operating due to the fuel shortage. Everyone worried, “Where will we bake our bread?”
I remembered my 90-year-old grandmother telling me about conditions during the Nakba, which were similar to our present-day situation. Back then, my grandfather had baked bread every day in a clay oven.
An idea loomed in my horizon. What if I learned how to bake bread for people using fire instead of gas?
With instructions from my grandmother—and through failures, laughter, and some inner sadness realizing how much my life had changed—I mastered it.
On March 18, 2025, I opened my current project, a small oven made of clay and hope. Neighbors started to come and give me their bread to bake. I labored eight hours a day, until the smell of bread mixed with sweat and soot became a part of my skin.
I started engaging in conversations with people while they were waiting for their bread. From doctors to lawyers, teachers, and many others—each shared their own war stories. And little by little, “The Baker” became my nickname.
In our culture, certain jobs carry prestige, such as being a professor, doctor, or engineer. But who respects a man who sells food on a wooden table or juice in a glass box? With every passing day, survival became more important than identity. It didn’t matter who you wanted to be. It mattered how you could eat today.
At first, I felt ashamed. But slowly, I began to see something else. Strength. Dignity. The resilience of a man who refuses to surrender when the world tries to stop him.
I ask myself, what job will I find next?
Is that the only fate for us, stumbling from one job to the next? In Gaza, we don’t have the right to choose our paths. The paths choose us, regardless of our desires.
I am no longer the boy who dreamed of working with computers. I’ve become the man who’s working through fire, death, and ruins. Despite all the shattered dreams, I have one stubborn hope.
I might not have a stable job as a taxi driver, a street stall seller, or a baker with a clay oven. But one thing remains.
As long as I keep trying—and breathing—I haven’t lost yet.
This is not the end of my story, it’s just the start of a new one. A new hope that never dies. A new miracle that I will make with the same hands that bake hot bread.
Yes, we have too much to endure, too many wounds to carry. But we carry dignity with one hand and face circumstances with the other.
