we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Imagine a new stadium rising from the rubble, and children dressed in traditional embroidered garments walking onto the field carrying olive branches!
A watch party for the Egypt–Argentina game, as seem from above the rubble of the Wattan building in Gaza City. The Egyptian humanitarian committee organized this watch event; Mohamed al-Wahidi, the head of the committee, was assassinated just before gametime. Photo: Ali Skaik
What if the World Cup were in Palestine? What if the chanting I heard in the middle of the night wasn’t from locals hoping the internet would stay on so they could see the whole game, but from a shining new stadium, stands filled with international fans singing, drumming, and chanting?
Away from the mounds of rubble, away from the bulldozed neighborhoods, stolen by the occupation, the World Cup in Palestine would be by the seaside, by the sand, with the gentle breeze from the Mediterranean cooling and softening the smiling faces of the world’s fans.
With no blockade, no travel restrictions, they would have gathered in the embrace of Gaza and feel its tenderness; the smell of the sea would make them fall in love with our country.
We’d sell seashells and olive leaves as souvenirs. We’d serve maftoul and musakhan and sunrise breakfasts of beans, falafel, chickpeas, and olive oil. We’d ply our guests with the fruits of our land.
On our broken walls, we’d hang pictures of pre-war Gaza, so our guests could see its stolen beauty. Along the beach, we’d fly the flags of every country. And we’d welcome their fans in our embroidered Palestinian dresses, carrying plates of henna and Mohammadi roses, showering them in celebratory rice.
The opening ceremony, with its Palestinian theme, would start an international tournament of joy. Imagine. The stadium falls into complete darkness until a single beam of light reveals an ancient olive tree at the center of the field. As its roots radiate across the pitch through stunning visual projections, they transform into the colors and patterns of the Palestinian keffiyeh, symbolizing resilience, heritage, and the deep connection between the people and their land.
Children from across Palestine dressed in traditional embroidered garments representing the country’s diverse regions walk onto the field carrying olive branches. The stadium floor comes alive with projections of Jerusalem’s Old City, Gaza’s Mediterranean coastline, rolling olive groves, vibrant village landscapes. The sounds of church bells, the call to prayer, waves crashing against the shore, and bustling markets blend into a single musical composition, capturing the richness of Palestinian life.
Matches start as the sun sets, its rays playing and glimmering on the waves. With drums, sword dances, and dabke, with melodies of Meghana and Ataba, we raise the roof. Stories and recited poems and verses meet wild applause from fans in love with wearing and dancing in their new, carefully tied keffiyehs.
And the martyrs, we honor, displaying their names and throwing flowers in remembrance. And we shower the stadium with the beauty and fragrance of basil to keep the names of the martyrs in our hearts. The Palestinian team plays strong and proud, drawing strength from the roots of their land.
But would the occupation allow West Bank Palestinians and the 1948 territories Palestinians to enter Gaza? Would the people of one land be able to meet, gather, and sing for their homeland on the same terraces?
And if they came to Gaza, would they see a land they recognize? Enter from the West Bank and they’d notice the olive trees of eastern Gaza, along the border, like the homes, have been completely destroyed, erased from existence. Disappeared. The occupation forces bulldozed them and stole the rubble before locals could save photos, memories, even bones of their martyred loved ones.
What if the World Cup were in the West Bank? Would we Gazans be allowed to enter Palestine? Would we see its streets, its alleys, its olive trees? Would we smell Jerusalemite cakes? Would families gather after decades? Would football reunite us with our land? Could one people be together once again? And if we were, should Israel dare to bomb us in front of the world?
We cheered on our neighbor, Egypt, until Argentina put them out of the World Cup. We celebrated each game on Gaza’s seashore, and I heard its voice shout through every street and house.
We are so proud of Spain and its players. As the game played on, I waited and waited, cursing the slowness of the internet in Gaza. When the goals came, we heard the roar of cheers long before seeing the goal on the screen.
Two Palestinians in London, wearing Morocco jerseys and headed to the soccer watch party for the Egypt–Argentina game. Photo: Ayham Freihat
We live in hope that the tournament will one day come to Gaza, a liberated land. We live in hope that the pitches and stands return, growing out of the black empty ground our stadiums once stood on; that we can play, once again, with warmth and passion; that our national team are in perfect health, not missing a limb or their lives. That children can, once again, dream of representing their country in a football stadium built for hope.
