we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Communities find strength as prayers rise from Gaza City’s tent mosques.
The ruins of Al Hassaina mosque, surrounded by tents. Photo: Yousef Mushtaha
My neighborhood, Tel Al-Hawa in Gaza City, was filled with mosques: Al-Hidaya, Ansar, Al-Falah, Musab. The sound of takbeers (calls to prayer) floated from the minarets. The scent of prayer carpets, the imams’ comforting voices, and the sight of countless worshippers filling the rows brought relief and peace to anyone who stepped inside. At one of the largest and most intricately decorated mosques — Al-Hidaya — my mother, sister, and I regularly performed Taraweeh (night prayers during Ramadan).
I’d started memorizing the holy Qur’an when I was 10 years old, inspired by my neighbor, also Mariam, a year younger than me. Two little girls, we’d play football in the street then go to Al-Ansar Mosque to pray, recite verses, and move closer to knowing the holy book by heart. Al-Ansar was not a big mosque; it was big enough only for the worshippers living in our lane. Whenever I stepped through its gate, surrounded by greenery and beauty, a sense of profound spirituality seeped into my soul. I was young, but I would grow up into an adult deeply attached to her religion — and for that I thank Mariam. Without her encouragement, I wouldn’t have been the person I am now. She set me on a journey into the Qur’an.
When you memorize the Qur’an, you keep repeating the same words, and then you become curious to know what they mean. In this way, you begin to understand the valuable lessons that the verses are meant to deliver.
My parents named us after some surahs (chapters of the Qur’an): Yousef, Noor, and Mariam. I grew up deeply attached to these specific surahs and to the stories and wisdom they carry. Surah-Yusuf, for example, tells the story of Prophet Yusuf (peace be upon him). His brothers felt jealous of him because of their father’s too much care of him, so they threw him into a well. Eventually, he came to be the ruler of Egypt. He was falsely accused and then imprisoned, but in the end, he was rewarded.
This surah was not difficult to memorize, at least for me, because Yusuf’s story is familiar and I used to read it when I was young. It is a powerful depiction of patience and destiny and that even when life weighs heavy on you Allah will reward you in one way or another.
When I turned 15, I moved to Tajweed (recitation) courses at Al-Falah Mosque, following in my mother’s footsteps. She, too, had fond memories of her own study in the nearby mosque, which had qualified Tajweed teachers whom she highly recommended. Intrigued and excited to move further on my spiritual journey, I joined the teachers and students in my daily ritual of memorizing a new verse in the morning and spending my evenings reviewing old lessons.
On both Eids each year, we traveled as a family to a mosque outside Tel Al-Hawa. Al-Hassaina was one of the biggest and most magnificent mosques. It was in Gaza City’s port, to the west overlooking the sea. Its two white and gold minarets, three domes, and lush grassy space called to hundreds of worshippers, whose numbers doubled during Eids. Heeding the call to prayer, lines of people stretched from the mosque gate. After performing the Eid prayer, we all flooded into its square to celebrate, and we children hoarded bags of Eid sweets given to us by the grownups.
Al-Hussaina mosque (2019). Photo:منجد خضر محمد حلس, Creative Commons 4.0
It was just before my Tawjihi (high school exams), at 18, that I could finally celebrate having memorized the entire holy Qur’an. The day I became a Hafiza, with every word of the Qur’an in my heart, carried a mix of emotions: pride, happiness, and wonder. I was proud to have accomplished something not all people manage to do, and wondered how those tiring years had passed at such speed.
As I held my certificate, I forgot the toil of the previous years, the hours I’d spent in the mosque reciting every word. At home, my parents beamed at me as I hung my framed certificate on my bedroom wall, proud of my greatest achievement.
Now that certificate lies smashed beneath the pile of rubble that was once my home. The mosques, too, now stand only in my memory.
In March 2025, after the truce was signed, I returned to my home in Tel Al-Hawa. The widespread destruction in every street struck me; even the electric wires and water pumps buried underground no longer existed, much like the rest of the decimated neighborhood. I walked, almost speechless, through the streets with Yousef, my youngest brother. The only thing that broke our stunned silence was me asking, “Who lived here?” as we passed another broken shell. I had forgotten. Everything had changed.
Al-Ansar Mosque, where I had started my journey of memorizing the Qur’an, was two layers squashed together, its minaret vanished, reduced to scattered pieces. Yousef described it as “a biscuit.”
As we reached Al-Hidaya Mosque, my heart broke: my favorite mosque lay shattered on the ground. I froze, the echo of takbeers (joyous proclamations of Allah’s glory) now only in my head, the scent of prayer carpets replaced by the smell of destruction.
So many of Gaza City’s mosques have been destroyed. In a city of citizens with deep faith and attachment to religion, their loss is agonizing. Israel knew how important mosques are to us and tried to destroy our resolve by deliberately targeting them, leaving almost none unscathed. They deprived us of the sacred rituals in our mosques for two Ramadans and four Eids. No Taraweeh, no Eid prayers.
We cannot rebuild our destroyed mosques, but we can still find ways to pray together, side by side. With fabric sheets and tarpaulins, Gazans created makeshift chapels. They’re flimsy structures that could fall apart at any moment.
A chapel in a tent in Tel Al-Hawa neighborhood near Al-Falah Mosque. Photo: Yousef Mushtaha
We miss our mosques. They were an integral part of our religion and our daily lives. A community can grow in our fabric chapels, but they will never carry the spirituality, memories, and nostalgia that we feel for our mosques.
But despite the painful period we have gone through, we still hold onto faith — faith in Allah that He will shower us with His blessings. We know He is generous. This had been reflected in the reactions of the Gazan people during the genocide. Are we resentful after losing our families or our homes? Do we become secular? On the contrary, we say Alhamdulillah (praise be to God).
As the world has turned a blind eye to our suffering, we as Muslims have an ally who is far greater. We have Allah, and we believe that in the end, He will reward us for our patience, and that our occupied homeland will be free from those who have distorted religion to serve their political goals.
