we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Pretend food made of sand, drawings of martyred relatives, and games played on rubble reflect the wartime reality.
Children make falafel out of sand, laughing as they pretend to eat, imagining they are full rather than crying from hunger. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
In Gaza, childhood is not measured by toys but by the sound of rockets. Children’s lives are not defined by holidays, family gatherings, or moments of joy, but by nights of bombing and days of blockade. The innocence of growing up is lost between the wails of sirens, the roar of explosions, and the chaos of survival.
For many children, their earliest memories are not of playgrounds or birthday parties, but of being pulled out of rubble by frantic parents. A five-year-old may not understand peace, but they know when the planes are near, and they can distinguish the sound of a bomb from that of a passing aircraft.
In Gaza, hunger is a constant companion and the children’s imaginations become their only escape. With no food to eat, they turn to the earth around them. They mold clay and sand into shapes, pretending it is food — they shape crumbs of bread, pieces of fruit, even elaborate dishes like pizza.
They decorate their “meals” with small stones and leaves, their creativity painting a bittersweet picture of survival. Imagining for a brief moment that they can fill their empty stomachs, their faces light up as they “eat” these imaginary meals, their minds creating a world where hunger doesn’t exist.
Children decorate their “meals” with small stones and leaves, creatively making an imaginary feast for survival. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
A group of children crafts falafel from sand and clay. They wear make-shift gloves made from plastic bags, using them to knead their sand “meals.” Nearby, they’ve built a simple oven from the earth.
Children knead the sand, turning it into food and eating with their eyes what war has taken from them. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
They giggle, sharing their “food” with friends, disregarding the reality that what they’re consuming is nothing but dust and dirt. In their hearts, they hold onto the hope of a better future, where they no longer have to play with sand to satisfy their hunger.
In their notebooks, the children of Gaza sketch the homes that war has destroyed, but they surround them with flowers and suns.
One day, I visited my cousins, and as I flipped through their sketchbooks, I found drawings filled with heartbreaking detail. On the page, I saw fragile lines forming a shattered home, but in the midst of the rubble were glowing names – “Huthyfa, Hala” – the names of my cousins who were martyred.
Children illustrate the names of those they’ve lost with drawings of birds and flowers. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
Through their art, it was as if my cousins were trying to rebuild the house that was destroyed, preserving the memory of their loved ones in every stroke. Uncle Abed Al-Salam, Huthyfa, and Hala: They wrote the names in large letters. Next to the names, they added a simple phrase: “May God have mercy on them.” The children also drew cartoon characters, bright and full of colors, as if they were trying to bring joy back into a world that had lost peace.
Al-Shimaa, my 13-year-old cousin, was the one who carefully drew the cartoon characters. My cousin Alaa Abed Al-Salam Al-Wawi, who is 8 years old, along with Safyah and Musk Yousef Al-Wawi – who are 8 and 4 years old, respectively – colored them in.
Children draw cartoon characters, as if they are trying to bring joy back into a world that had lost peace. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
Every smile on these characters represented a small rebellion against the sorrow that had invaded their lives. The characters appeared happy, unaffected by the violence around them.
But the contrast between the colorful drawings and the shattered world they lived in was stark, and each brushstroke was a question: “Can this be our world? Can we live in peace here?”
My cousins and their friends color-in cartoon characters. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi
I once saw a group of children laughing and playing atop the ruins of a demolished house, turning the wreckage into their playground. Resilience should not be a burden for children. No child should have to be brave because the world failed to protect them. The world should remain silent when children sleep, not when they die.
Despite countless reports and testimonies, the suffering of Gaza’s children echoes silently through the halls of the world. Governments express concern, but concern does not rebuild homes or bring back parents who are gone. Even when aid arrives, it cannot fill the void that war leaves in the hearts of these children.
From my room, I hear children playing in the streets, weaving between stones, drawing flowers where bombs once fell, dreaming of a world where they can live, grow, and be safe. Their laughter echoes through the shattered alleys, as if to remind the world that Gaza still pulses with life.
The children of Gaza deserve more than mere survival — they deserve to live, to dream, and to grow up in a safe world. It is time for the world to awaken, to stand by them, and to ensure their cries are heard before it is too late.
