we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
A young boy’s wishes on the blessed Day of Arafah speak not only for his family and friends but for everyone in Gaza amid war and famine.
Hamod with his handmade trap for catching birds. Photo: Doha Fayyad
Thursday, June 5, 2025, marked the Day of Arafah—a blessed day of religious rituals for Muslims right before Eid Al-Adha. We pray for everything we long for while fasting till sunset. Our hearts are filled with a sense of tranquility and spiritual peace all day, and we eagerly await the Eid that follows.
Last year, in June 2024, we spent the Day of Arafah and Eid displaced from our home. It had been utterly destroyed and we were scared to death by the endless bombardment. We believed we were living through the worst of it. In reality, the coming days and months taught us what “the worst” really looks like.
In March this year, all the crossings were closed off by the Israeli occupation, resulting in a ruthless famine sweeping across Gaza. The famine is now at the most critical stage. People are famished and malnourished, unable to find even a handful of flour to feed their own and their children’s hunger. The Day of Arafah came to visit while we were displaced, terrified, and starving.
All the features of Arafah were lost. There wasn’t any sense of the usual peace and joy; fear, sorrow, and uncertainty dominated. Throughout the day, we prayed for everything our souls crave while we fasted. As the sun fell, we had some water and a modest meal, grateful to have something to break our fast with, knowing that others would be forced to remain fasting indefinitely.
We sat in an odd, dismal silence, with our pale faces reflecting condolence more than Eid. It was my 8-year-old nephew Mohammad Fayyad, or Hamod as we like to call him, who broke that silence when he appeared holding a piece of paper in his hand, saying: “Look what prayers I made for today!”
In crooked, childlike, but nonetheless clear handwriting, Hamod wrote his first prayer: “Dear Allah, let this war end.”
The list of prayers Hamod wrote during the Day of Arafah, taken by his mother. Photo: Doha Fayyad
We asked Hamod some questions, gently encouraging him to speak. He started talking about what happened two days ago, when an airstrike hit in front of the public soup kitchen nearby. One person was killed and more were injured, including children. Hamod said, “I could have been among them—I sometimes play there and I am often sent to bring food from the soup kitchen!”
Hamod’s dark thought made us all fall silent. This hypothetical tragic scenario was already in our minds, but we had not spoken about it in Hamod’s earshot; we didn’t know that it preyed on his little mind, too.
Since the start of the war, we’ve done our best to shield our children from the full horror of this war. We try to protect their mental well-being. However, it’s safe to say that everyone’s psyche, including the children’s, is deeply hurt. Hamod said it plainly: “I’m thirsty to feel safe!”
My nephew wants the attacks to end simply because he’s scared for himself and for those he loves. This is why his repeated prayers on that sheet of paper were for Allah to protect him, his family, and all his loved ones from the savagery of war.
On the other half of the paper, Hamod wrote out his prayer: “Dear Allah, let the crossing open.” Hamod elaborated on how, if his prayer was answered, the aid kits would be allowed into our country and the markets would be full of everything once more, including flour. We would no longer need to ration our daily bread, or to risk our lives queuing for supplies at aid distribution sites.
When I asked Hamod about the things he yearns for when that happens, his eyes lit up with excitement, then a hint of sadness.
Hamod said, “I would really like to get some chips and that chocolate egg with a toy inside!” Then he added, “I also really want watermelon.” He paused for a moment, then said, “When I was at the market with my mom, we found small pieces of watermelon for sale. I ate one, and my mom had one too—it was so delicious!” He carried on, “If the crossing opens, the prices will go down and we’ll be able to buy a whole watermelon!”
I remember how we all smiled at Hamod, while nodding in agreement. I know well what pain and grief our smiling faces were hiding at that moment.
When we came to the part in Hamod’s prayer—”Dear Allah, let me catch birds!”—we all laughed. We know the story. During this critical stage, we haven’t eaten any meat for over three months. Hamod asked YouTube to provide him with tips and tricks to hunt birds. He found a method and made a simple trap with the help of his father. Despite the fact that all attempts were fruitless, it seemed as if innocent Hamod was still hopeful. It is a kind of innocence that I hope war won’t steal away from him.
In his final prayer, Hamod asked Allah to help us to defeat our enemies and get them out of our country.
Through his paper prayers, Hamod, in his innocent and childlike way, mirrored not only his own wishes but also the prayers of all the people of Gaza. We all long for the safety of ourselves and our loved ones. It is the dearest and most precious feeling ever, that has been stolen from us for nearly two years.
We also eagerly await the reopening of the crossing, so that we can get flour, meat, chicken, fruits, and vegetables. We definitely wouldn’t mind some chips and chocolate, too. We yearn for everything because we almost have nothing.
Hamod is a reflection of all the people of Gaza and most specifically of the tired, scared, and hungry children who throughout the war have watched their childish hopes being shattered, leaving them with one fragile prayer: to feel safe and to feel full.
