we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
When my cousins visited Gaza for the first time with my aunt, our joyful reunion quickly turned into a nightmare as war broke out.
Destruction in the Al-Shuja’iya neighborhood, where Mariam’s grandparents’ house is located. Photo: Boris Niehaus, Creative Commons 4.0
I have five aunts, and one of them, Eman, holds a special place in my heart. She married when I was four years old, and soon after, she and her Swedish husband moved to Stockholm to start their new life. There, they were blessed with two beautiful daughters, Samera and Retal.
Aunt Eman decided it was time to show her daughters their homeland, Palestine, and offer them the chance to meet their cousins and aunts.
When they arrived, Samera and Retal were overjoyed to finally meet their cousins, and sisters were excited to see each other after a long separation. We spent a joyful day together at our grandparents’ house, sharing laughter and creating memories.
Fatefully, this reunion took place just days before the eruption of the Gaza War on October 7, 2023, and we were suddenly thrust into a painful tragedy. Although our relatives held Swedish nationality, what took place was a cruel reminder that, in the face of war, no passport could shield them from what was to come.
Tel Al-Hawa was crucial to Israeli war strategy because of its location. The Israeli forces used various tactics to terrorize residents and force them to leave. Their plan was to completely empty the area, allowing them to easily occupy the Netzarim and impose a division between the north and the south.Many of our neighbors felt compelled to flee but we decided to stay until the situation escalated and we realized that staying meant certain death.
We had two options: either head south and wait for the Rafah border crossing into Egypt to open, or stay in the north. We chose to stay in the north, hoping the war would end soon. When the Israeli attacks became ever closer, though, we had to leave our home. As I stepped out, a deep sorrow filled my heart. I had a feeling that this separation would be long and that our return would not be soon.
We headed to Al-Quds Hospital, the refuge nearest to our home. For two days, we remained there amid the chaos, before finally making our way to my grandparents’ house in Al-Shuja’iyya, where we hoped to find safety.
Their house was too small and fragile, located in an old neighborhood where the houses were close and full of displaced people. Twenty-four of us lived in a tiny space, yet we created unforgettable memories together. Each morning, we would gather for breakfast, sharing laughter and stories. However, the sounds of explosions often interrupted our moments, making it hard to finish our meal.
Among us were my cousins: Samera and her sister, Retal, and also Lian and her sister, Sara. They played with dolls, filling the house with energy and happiness. But whenever an airstrike was heard, they would quickly run to their mothers, seeking comfort.
On the night of November 9, the explosions did not stop and our minds could not find rest. The children surrendered to sleep, unaware of everything happening outside. At about 8 the next morning, I was still sleeping. Samera was lying on the bed, and Retal, beside Lian, was playing on the floor. Amid the fear, their innocent laughter became a moment of peace as they left behind the harshness of the night.
Then, in an instant, everything turned to darkness. The air was so thick with dust, I struggled to open my eyes. I found myself trapped, unable to move. It was then that I realized the house had been attacked.
Mariam’s grandparents’ house after destruction. Photo: Mohammed Hammad
The house was small, and some of us survived the attack unscathed, but the room my cousins and I were in took the most damage, and we were all injured and buried in debris. My mother and my aunts screamed in desperation as they realized their daughters were buried under the rubble. The cries echoed through the air, raw with fear and helplessness.
The neighbors rushed to help, lifting the heavy blocks of debris. Time seemed to stretch on as they worked tirelessly to free us. After a while, they managed to pull us out. But Retal … she was still trapped. Her voice was no longer heard, and her breathing became weak, barely audible.
After several attempts, and with the help of neighbors, they finally managed to pull Retal out. Her blood was everywhere, staining the ground and the wreckage. Her mother Eman stood in silence, unable to fully grasp what she had just witnessed.
Retal was rushed to the hospital, but the first option, Al-Ahli Arab Hospital, was out of service, after its yard was shelled on October 17. The only remaining option was Al-Shifa Hospital, which was already overwhelmed with patients. Aunt Eman stayed by Retal’s side at the hospital while her other daughter, Samera, remained with us. They held onto the belief that their return would be soon and the situation would not get any worse.
That hope was shattered when we received the devastating news: Al-Shifa Hospital was now besieged by the Israeli army, and reaching the hospital had become impossible.
The people there had to endure severe conditions under the attack. With the Israel Occupation Forces outside, moving between buildings or even looking out of the window could make them an easy target for snipers positioned on nearby rooftops. The constant fear was suffocating, and even the smallest actions could cost them their lives.
Day after day, food became increasingly scarce. Retal, already weakened and in pain from her injuries, found herself relying on noodles and canned food, unable to eat the nutritious meals she needed to recover.
Retal was one of thousands of children who shared the same harsh reality: no food, no peace, and no sleep. On top of these struggles, the Israeli army launched a raid on Al-Shifa Hospital on November 15, entering the building. Many people were arrested, and others were killed indiscriminately.
But this wasn’t enough for the soldiers, so they ordered all patients to leave the hospital immediately. Some were able to evacuate, but others, who were in critical conditions like Retal, could not leave without special equipment. Ambulances worked tirelessly to evacuate as many patients as possible.
Retal and her mother were among those evacuated, and they were transferred to Gaza European Hospital in Khan Younis. This move was crucial, as all the hospitals in the north had been destroyed or rendered non-operational, and escaping to the south was the only option.
Now, Retal and her mother found themselves separated from Retal’s sister, Samera, who had stayed with us in the north. Unfortunately, they did not even get the chance to say goodbye. Fate forced them to experience the horrors of war again and again, each in different places and circumstances.
Before the subsequent invasion of Rafah, they managed to leave Gaza to Egypt for Retal’s operation. Every time my Aunt Eman called us, she would say, “I left my second part in Gaza,” meaning her second daughter, Samera. Despite the pain of leaving her behind, my aunt had no other choice. Without advanced medical care, Retal’s survival was in question.
Samera stayed with us for about six months. Although she was just 12, her strength and patience amazed us. Every time she prayed, I would see her in prostration, tears in her eyes, asking Allah to bring her back together with her family.
In Ramadan, Samera bravely decided to head south and leave Gaza on her own despite her young age. She successfully crossed the Netzarim corridor and reached the south safely. It was a lucky escape: The day after she left, the second raid on Al-Shifa Hospital took place, making it impossible for anyone to move south.
The family reunited in Egypt after a long and painful separation. They spent some time there for Retal’s operation before returning to Sweden. Gazan doctors had done everything they could to help Retal, even under the worst conditions. “They were like angels,” Retal said. However, my cousin’s injury was so severe and complex that even Swedish doctors were unable to do anything more than relieve her pain and reduce the severity of the injury; no one could heal her.
Despite all the hardships they endure, Retal’s smile hasn’t faded and my aunt’s patience hasn’t wavered. They lived through the horrors of war once, but, like all Palestinians regardless of their circumstances, they remain strong and steadfast in the face of oppression and they are ready to face any struggle to see their homeland free, liberated from every trace of Zionist occupation.
Now, Retal and Samera are back in school, and my Aunt Eman has given birth to a baby girl. She named her Yasmeen as a symbol of beauty and hope—a hope for a better future and a full recovery, especially for Retal, who has overcome the most tragic experience.
