we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Rama and I shared dreams, laughter, and bombs; she will never be just a number.
Rama Walid Shama’a was a 20-year-old who hoped to have an impact on her community and the world around her. Photo: Eman Ghassan Abu Zayed
At the beginning of my first year at the Islamic University of Gaza, I was sitting in the cafeteria having breakfast when I noticed a girl sitting nearby. She was wearing large Bluetooth headphones and watching a movie on her iPad. The way she styled her hijab caught my attention. It was simple, yet elegant.
In that moment, I had a strange feeling. This girl, I thought, will be my friend someday.
Later, when I went to class, she was sitting in the seat right in front of me. She turned around and smiled and that’s when it all began.
We gradually started talking and getting to know each other. With time, we began waiting for each other in the university courtyards, walking together to classes, and spending most of our time side by side.
She became my closest friend at university. We attended lectures together, strolled around after class, shared meals and laughter, and sometimes even dressed alike.
We used to love going with our other friends to the café near campus to have breakfast and take lots of photos. Beautiful memories to hold on to. Because here in Gaza, memories stay with us. Everything else can be lost. Or taken away.
Rama was a dreamer. She longed to travel and explore the Western world, to see new cultures, and learn more about life beyond the borders of Gaza. Alongside her studies, she worked as a translator, using her skills to support the Palestinian cause and bring her homeland’s voice to the world.
Rama loved to laugh and spend time with her friends in cozy gatherings. She was passionate about movies, TV shows, and novels. They were her escape.
She was full of dreams and ambitions, carrying in her heart a great wish to make a positive impact on her community and the world around her.
One month before Rama was killed, while the war was raging across Gaza, I kept trying to check in on her. Communication was nearly impossible. The internet was cut off, and the signal was incredibly weak. But after many unsuccessful attempts, I finally managed to have a short call with her. Just 15 minutes.
We talked about how we were holding up and how hard life had become. Her voice was heavy with sadness and fear, but she still tried to plant seeds of hope in my heart. She said, “Do you think the war will end and we’ll gather again in the university garden?” She shared how scared she was of the bombings, of displacement, of the possibility of being killed or losing someone in her family.
Rama’s family shared with me the events of the evening of Jan. 15, 2024. Rama and her four sisters were sitting together in her room. Despite the war, the atmosphere was warm. Ayah, was sharing stories from their childhood, and they laughed together, reminiscing about innocent memories from a simpler time. Rama had prepared cups of Nescafé for everyone. She laughed wholeheartedly as she listened, nibbling on a cashew nut.
Suddenly, a massive explosion shook the house
Neighbors rushed to rescue whoever was trapped beneath the debris. Ruba, Rama’s sister, was the first to be pulled out but she had already passed away. Then they found Rama’s body pinned beneath a large concrete block that couldn’t be easily lifted. Her body remained under the rubble for over 12 hours before they were finally able to retrieve it.
Rama was buried next to her sister Ruba. Just as they had shared a room in life, they now shared a grave in death.
Rama used to dream of the future. But she was taken before her story could unfold. Before her dream of returning to university could come true. Even before she could finish that cashew nut. Rama wasn’t just killed. Life, in all its big and small details, was stolen from her.
At the time, I was in a displacement camp in Rafah, struggling with cold, hunger, and anxiety. Still, I kept trying to hold on to any remaining threads of hope. The signal was extremely weak. Messages and calls barely got through. I would turn on my phone every now and then, searching for even a flicker of connection.
During one of those attempts, I received a message from my friend Rawaan. It hadn’t arrived on the day it was sent, delayed for hours due to the poor signal. But when it did arrive, it hit me like a cold bullet to the heart. The message was short, but shook my entire world:
“Rama was martyred.”
I read the words and couldn’t believe them. I stared at the screen for long seconds, as if my eyes could no longer make sense of the letters. The message echoed in my head over and over, but my heart refused to accept it.
Rama? No. Impossible. I began to scream, to cry, to tremble. It felt as though the air had been sucked from my lungs. As if the ground beneath me had collapsed.
Rama wasn’t just a friend. She was the sister my mother never gave birth to. My daily companion. The familiar face I looked for every morning on campus.
Today I live through the photos we took, the video clips that captured our laughter—me, her, and the rest of our friends. In quiet moments, I return to them, as if they’re my refuge from an unbearable reality.
Looking at photos of the two of us, here in our jilbab shar’i at our university, takes me away from unbearable reality. Photo: Eman Ghassan Abu Zayed
Rama’s biggest dream was for us to graduate together. To celebrate that day hand in hand, and begin our careers side by side. She used to imagine us in our graduation gowns, taking pictures on campus, holding bunches of flowers that captured our joy after years of hard work and dedication. She loved the little details and always planned them with excitement, even choosing the type of flowers we would hold. But the war stole that simple dream from us, leaving me to carry its memory alone, my heart heavy with longing and grief.
Rama will never be just a number or just another name added to a long list of martyrs. She was a real person full of life, with dreams, friendships, laughter, and a purpose in this world.
Rama is gone, but her message lives on. And as I write these words, I don’t write them only for myself or for her, but for everyone who lost their loved ones in silence.
All I hope today is that these words reach you, Rama, wherever you are. I want you to know that you’re still here, in my heart, just as you’ve always been.
