we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
I had hoped a childhood fantasy would turn displacement into an outdoor adventure. It didn’t.
We lived in a shack on a farm for nine months. Photo: Eman Akram Eid
In May 2024, after months of Israeli bombardment, evacuation orders, and the invasion of Rafah, my family and I found shelter on my aunt’s olive and date palm farm near Deir Al-Balah, in the center of the Gaza Strip. For nine months, we lived there in a shack constructed from salvaged wood, fabric, sheet metal, and tarps. It was unfit for human habitation.
To maintain my sanity, I fantasized I was living like Mowgli, from the animated series, “Mowgli, the Jungle Boy.” As a child, I was fascinated by this tale of a boy raised by animals in the wild and would watch it repeatedly. I imagined myself living in trees, walking barefoot, and speaking with animals. My family even nicknamed me “Mowgli.”
After we moved to the farm, I looked for similarities between where we were living and Mowgli’s cartoon jungle. His was filled with the rustling of leaves. So was ours. At night, we could hear the rustling of palm fronds colliding with one another and brushing against our shack. Mowgli’s danger alarms were the roar of wolves and the menace of Shere Khan, the tiger. Ours were the hum of drones, the sudden roar of fighter jets, and the unsettling silence that followed explosions. Mowgli had to learn to survive among beasts with claws and fangs. We had to learn to survive among beasts that flew overhead and dropped fire.
The coexistence I developed with the animals living in and around our shack reminded me of Mowgli’s life among the animals in the jungle. When I didn’t have anyone to open up to, I spoke with my quiet animal companions. They were witnesses to my unspoken grief.
Within a few days of our arrival at the farm, I found a pregnant cat. Days later, she gave birth to five kittens. I admired her strength—how she cared for all her kittens on her own. Months later, after the kittens grew up, all but one of them had left. It was blind and had beige fur. On rainy days, it would sleep between our bags, searching for warmth. Whenever I thought it was lost, I would find it curled up inside the pantry boxes. When it was hungry, it chased after me and my siblings until we offered it canned tuna or luncheon meat. In December 2024, it died. Maybe its fur could not protect it from the winter cold, or maybe it died from hunger when we no longer had any food to spare.
One morning, while sitting on a chair and holding my mug of tea, I watched as a pigeon carefully chose the right twig to build its nest. It would walk, scan with its eyes, feel each twig with its beak, and carry away each one without tiring. I remember watching birds peck at dates high up in the palm trees. They made me wish I could climb a tree and pick some myself. Then I remembered how Mowgli would sometimes throw a wooden stick to gather food; I found one and threw it at the dates. After several attempts, a date fell to the ground and I ate it. It was sweet like honey and soft like butter.
I felt wonder watching the mice in and around our shack. I learned that mice ate avocados, eggplant, and potatoes. Pistachios seemed to be their favorite food. One night, I bought a paper cone of mixed nuts and tucked it into the outer pocket of my backpack, which was hanging on the wooden wall beside me. That night, I woke up to the sound of strange rustling and crunching. When I couldn’t figure out what was causing it, I ignored it and went back to sleep. In the morning, I found the backpack torn from the bottom, with pistachio shells scattered throughout the shack.
Before we moved to the shack, I used to wonder why Mowgli didn’t like rain, since I loved walking in the rain. Now I understand. Whenever it rained, water would leak through the holes in our makeshift roof and soak all our belongings. On rainy nights, I would cover my body with a blanket. Since nothing I did could stop the rain from soaking me, I eventually learned to fall asleep in the rain as if nothing unusual was happening.
When food prices skyrocketed in Gaza after closure of the crossings, we decided to grow our own. In August 2024, my uncle brought us seeds for a variety of plants, including arugula, parsley, chickpeas, green beans, and peas. I was eager to help him plant them. Together, we plowed the small plot of land using hand plows, planted the seeds, and then watered them using water we pumped from a well. We had to leave the farm before we could harvest the vegetables. I hope someone was able to eat them.
Try as I might to pretend I was Mowgli living in a cartoon jungle, life on the farm became more difficult with each passing day. At some point, it became impossible for me to pretend any more. The shack wasn’t comfortable, and every day the mice became more annoying as they ate our food and made the place dirty.
Not only did my fantasy of being like Mowgli not make it any easier for me to live there, it didn’t make me any safer, either. One of our most terrifying days living in the shack came in August 2024. At around 5 p.m. that day, the sound of gunfire began to echo throughout the shack. At first, we treated it as something routine and ignored it. As night fell, things escalated. The sound of helicopters grew louder, and as they got closer, the shelling intensified; we felt the danger creeping nearer. We learned from the news we received on our phones that about a mile away a line of tanks was heading toward us.
Even though it was late, people living nearby started to flee. Quadcopters filled the sky; the sound of their rotors grew louder and louder to the point I felt my eardrums might burst. We had no place to hide. It was too dangerous to venture out to the streets, but we were not safe in our shack, either. We chose to stay where we were. We were all dressed and ready for any scenario—even for death. At least we would die clothed and dignified.
We felt like we were drowning in anxiety until, at last, we fell asleep, surrendering to reality. When we woke up, we found the tanks had withdrawn. We learned that they had been on a “special operation” to find and arrest a particular person.
In January 2025, after a temporary ceasefire went into effect, we wanted to live as humans again. We found an apartment to rent in Al-Nuseirat camp, where we still live. It’s not safe there either, but it’s more comfortable than the shack, and at least now I can love the rain again.
