we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
In Gaza, the biggest challenge of motherhood is being unable to provide what your child needs and deserves.
Zakaria on the bicycle we weren’t able to take with us when we left our home. Photo: Saeda Hamdona
I decided to send my three-and-a-half-year-old son, Zakaria, with his father to Friday prayers and to Qur’an lessons. He is a smart and inquisitive child, and I hoped that this experience would allow him to learn something new, connect with other children, and develop good habits and values from an early age.
When he got home that Friday, he appeared happier than usual. He sat in front of me, clearly excited, so I asked him about what he had learned and what the imam had said during the sermon. He responded quickly, as if he had anticipated the question: “The imam said that I am a polite and organized boy, and that I deserve a reward and a kindergarten because I really want to go to kindergarten.”
Naturally, the imam had not said anything of the sort during his sermon. However, I understood exactly what Zakaria was trying to convey. He was expressing a longing that had been sitting within him for several months, and he communicated it in his own unique way.
Zakaria’s “classroom” assignment: Coloring within a box. Photo by Saeda Hamdona
He conveyed his message in a juvenile tone, which made his father laugh. I smiled, but only fleetingly. I constantly try to hide the agony that lurks beneath such sweet and innocent moments. Whenever Zakaria mentions kindergarten, gifts, or anything he enjoys, I am reminded of all the things I am unable to provide for him.
Sometimes, children in Gaza are able to communicate their ideas without using many words. Their modest aspirations, which they attempt to cling to while living in a harsh reality that forces them to mature far too quickly, are frequently revealed by a simple question. These kids spend their days performing labor-intensive survival tasks, like standing in line for hours to fill water containers, gathering firewood for cooking, and assisting their families in carrying aid supplies or searching for basic food items, rather than attending kindergarten, playing or carrying school bags. Even when there are educational activities or programs, they are held in cramped refugee tents rather than actual classrooms.
The dream Zakaria discusses the most is kindergarten. Anytime he hears someone talking about school or sees a child carrying a bag or notepad, he asks me when he will be able to start kindergarten. I made several unsuccessful attempts to enroll him in educational programs, including those funded by UNICEF. Each time, I was told either that he was still too young or that the small classrooms were already full. In many cases, families with personal connections were given priority placement.
I kept looking for a way to give him an opportunity to play, study and interact with other children.
Zakaria once watched a neighbor’s child preparing for preschool. He turned to me and began asking questions about teachers, books and kindergarten. I felt so sad. I know that people live under vastly different circumstances in Gaza; while most families struggle to afford basic necessities, a few — such as traders, business owners or those employed by international organizations — still maintain higher incomes that allow them to secure private educational opportunities for their children. But how could a child his age understand such socio-economic disparities?
I decided to let Zakaria create his own miniature cosmos within our tent rather than try to explain why some kids could go to school and others could not. I set aside a little area to serve as his own kindergarten. I brought a large board, notebooks, and colorful pens, and began teaching him the alphabet, numbers, colors and simple songs. That corner became his favorite spot over time.
I was particularly pleased to see him model himself on his father, a former government schoolteacher who now teaches mathematics for UNICEF. Zakaria would stand in front of the board like a real instructor, ask me to be his student, and he would teach me about letters and numbers as he understood them. I’d look at him with pride, admiring his energy and intelligence, but it saddened me that so much effort was required to provide him what all children have a right to expect.
When we were forced to leave our home and relocate to a tent in Rafah in 2024, we had to leave Zakaria’s new bicycle with our relatives. I thought he would soon forget it, but he never did. He still talks about it as if it were in front of him. He remembers its color, its decorations, the handlebars and the little bell. Later, when we moved from the tent to our current temporary home in Khan Younis, we still could not bring the bicycle because of the sandy roads, and the limited space. Although he has not seen it for a long time, the bicycle remains vivid in his memory.
Zakaria likes to visit our young neighbor, who commutes to school by bicycle. I find these visits emotionally hard to watch. Zakaria does not try to claim the bike or ask to borrow it. Instead, he simply stands next to it, staring at it, and turning the pedals with his small hands. He gazes at the bike as though he’s re-establishing contact with a cherished memory.
I watch him from a distance, pretending not to notice his fleeting moment of happiness.
Every time I see Zakaria with our neighbor’s bike, I am reminded that the goals of youngsters are simple: a bicycle, kindergarten, a toy, and the chance to play with friends.
But no matter how hard I try to appear strong, my heart breaks each time the most basic goals seem impossible to attain.
Zakaria’s “classroom” assignment: Drawing straight lines. Photo: Saeda Hamdona
Ordinary details of Zakaria’s childhood have become increasingly complicated. Due to the high cost of diapers, I was forced to begin potty training sooner than planned. He wasn’t ready, and an unfortunate incident has made him apprehensive. He is still having difficulty learning how to use the bathroom on his own. These concerns may appear small, but for mothers they are part of a daily effort that requires endurance, patience and multiple attempts.
For me, the biggest challenge of motherhood isn’t fatigue, restless nights or an abundance of obligations. The most difficult thing is to carry on knowing that your child deserves everything in life you’d wish for him, and that you are not always able to provide it. It involves keeping an eye on him when he works hard, dreams and waits, and then making every effort to fill the void with patience, love and care, by creating a small learning corner for him inside our tent, giving him notebooks to draw his dreams, and playing the role of his student as he teaches me.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
