we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
I can’t buy my usual post-exam treats, which makes me sad, but what’s worse is that the store shelves are empty of even basic foods.
In a photo taken during the temporary ceasefire, the author rewards herself with treats after the end of her first year in university, which she completed online. Although the prices were high she couldn’t stop herself from buying snacks that had been unavailable. Photo: Taqwa Al-Wawi
Since I was a little girl, there have been certain moments I always waited for. These weren’t just breaks from school or short holidays—they were my sacred rituals. They came at the end of every exam period. These moments felt like a door opening into a world free from stress, pressure, and exhaustion. They brought back my appetite, my smile, and a sense of reward that made everything worth the effort.
I remember that day so clearly—the last day of exams. I’d walk out of school feeling like I could breathe again. I’d go to the store near my school and I’d buy my favorite snacks: chips in every flavor, Doritos (especially the blue ones), Lays, and, of course, Cheetos with their cheesy goodness. I’d also grab a pack of Mario chips for its unique taste, along with Stix and Pringles in all their colorful tubes—black, green, orange—I loved them all.
The spicier, the better. I loved the kick of chili flavor that made every bite feel like a celebration. I never forgot to get Indomie noodles too—the green pack was always my top pick, bold and delicious. And the red corn nuts, salty biscuits, and crunchy snacks completed the ritual. I always lost my appetite during exam weeks. But that day it came back.
This wasn’t just about food.
My treats were about reclaiming some joy for myself after weeks of pressure. At home, I’d neatly line up all the snacks on my desk. Each had its place and my line-up was perfect. I’d open my phone and play an episode of “Detective Conan.” My ritual was like a reset button. For those few hours, the outside world disappeared. I existed in a bubble of peace, happiness, and childhood.
My friends and family would laugh when they saw me carrying bags full of snacks. “Looks like someone just finished her exams!” they’d say every time.
I never imagined that the day would come when my little tradition would be impossible.
The war that began on Oct. 7, 2023, was the hardest I’ve ever lived through—and I’ve lived through so many. Even the wars I was too young to remember, even the war when I was just 2 years old. But this one? This war stole something different. It stole food. It brought hunger. Famine. Skyrocketing prices. During the early days of the war, snacks were still on the shelves. We still had food. But not for long. Suddenly, the stores were empty, and the streets were full of people trying to survive.
I tried to hold onto my ritual. At the end of the first semester in my first year of university—yes, even in the middle of war—I told myself: You deserve this. My brother Mo’men accompanied me, and I bought whatever was left. It wasn’t much, but I didn’t care.
After the second semester, during a short truce, I went out again. This time, the shelves were almost full, though the prices were absurd. I bought everything I could, even full boxes of snacks. My friends jokingly called me “the rich girl.” No one realized how much I was willing to pay to keep my celebration ritual alive.
But then came the summer semester—everything was gone.
No snacks. No Indomie. No chips. No juice. Nothing.
When I finished the semester, I asked my brother if he would take me to the shops. He looked at me with a quiet sadness and said, “There’s nothing in the stores.” For the first time ever I couldn’t perform my ritual. Not because I didn’t have the money, but because there was nothing to buy.
I’m 19 years old now, but I have never grown out of my cherished tradition. I don’t want to. To others, it may seem silly—I’m only buying chips and snacks. But to me, it’s a sacred reward for working hard.
The grief that hit me was more than just missing my snacks. It was more than simply about losing my ritual and the comfort it brought me. I sat in my room thinking: What kind of world fails to provide its people with basic food? What kind of world lets children go hungry? This world has let us down. It has taken away even our smallest joys.
Famine has taken over our daily lives. If you walk the streets, you’ll see children playing—but look into their eyes, and you’ll see pain. Hunger. Grief. I saw a boy, no older than 6 years old, walking with his mother past a small shop which miraculously had a little food. He was staring at a bag of chips that cost 10 shekels ($2.72)—before the war it was half a shekel (14 cents). His mother tried to calm him: “I’ll buy it for you when it’s cheaper.” He didn’t understand politics. But he understood hunger. He understood what it meant to lose something you love—even if it’s just a snack.
Children have been robbed of their childhood. Parents have nothing to offer. Families live on a single meal a day—or nothing but water. If you’re lucky, you get bread. That’s it. One family might manage to eat, but the one next door might go to sleep hungry again. Every household in Gaza carries its own story of suffering.
We hope that this nightmare will end. That we’ll wake up and the shelves will be full again. That no child will stare hungrily at a bag of chips. That no mother will have to say “not today.”
But let the world remember—it failed us.
It stood by as Gaza starved. As children died. People still call us “heroes.” But let me say this: We didn’t choose to be heroes. We were forced to be. We are still human. We still crave normalcy, peace, and dignity.
What’s the difference between a child in Gaza and a child anywhere else?
Nothing—except that we were born here. And for that, we suffer.
We are still here. But we will never forget—we endure, we resist, we rise.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
