we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Living under flimsy tarps, family members sift flour for bugs, walk through sewage to fetch water, and wash clothes with frozen hands.
Rain leaks through the roof of the tent. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
When dawn breaks over Gaza, it arrives with cold air, the smell of damp, and endless rain.
In a small tent, a family of five—father, mother, and three children—faces another day of survival.* They are barely holding it together. Life here is not measured by the hours of sunlight but by the moments that pass without disaster. The wind howls, the worn-out tarp shakes, and drops of water seep through the roof to signal the start of another long day.
The mother wakes up first, feeling the cold touch of rain leaking onto her face. With trembling hands, she grabs an old cloth and tries to soak up the puddles that are forming on the floor. Shivering with cold, she focuses on the corners where her children sleep. The father rises too, bracing himself against the storm as he attempts to patch the holes in the tarp. No matter how hard he tries, the rain finds a way in.
Outside, the eldest son carefully steps through streets flooded with sewage water. Overflowing from the first heavy rain, black water spreads everywhere and forms pools that resemble swamps. The stench is overwhelming, and the air feels thick, making it hard to breathe. He rolls up his pants, but the filthy water still seeps into his shoes.
The destruction caused by war has turned the streets into sewage. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
Fetching water used to be a simple task, but under siege, with no functioning drainage or infrastructure, it is now a tiring and dangerous journey. Waiting in long lines while standing ankle-deep in sewage, is now part of life—a hardship that only those who live it can truly understand.
In the corner of the tent, the eldest daughter sits next to the only bag of flour the family managed to get after days of struggle. Untying it carefully, she freezes as small worms and bugs crawl over her hands. Her eyes widen in shock, but she says nothing. Instead, she picks up a sieve and starts sifting. The flour is full of pests—tiny creatures moving through the grains. She sifts once, twice, five times, but the worms refuse to disappear.
“It’s like we’re eating sickness with our own hands,” she mutters bitterly.
Mother and daughter carefully sift through the flour to remove bugs. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
The mother joins her, and together they sift for the tenth time, hoping it will be enough. Eventually, the mother sighs. “I think we’ve cleaned it well,” she says softly, knowing full well that traces of bugs remain. But what choice do they have? They need to make bread. The daughter starts coughing from the white dust that came out of the flour. Dust fills the air, yet she doesn’t stop.
In the small tent, everything feels cluttered. Even after hours of organizing their few belongings, too many things are crammed into one space.
Amid the pouring rain is a small fire is for cooking and warmth in the storm. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
Outside, the father gathers the last few sticks from the wood he collected days ago. With some damp cardboard and scraps of paper, he tries to light a fire. The wind fights back, snuffing out the flames again and again. He tries once more, and finally, smoke rises, filling the tent with thick, choking clouds. The youngest daughter starts coughing violently, her small body trembling from the smoke.
The father helps his wife knead the dough. Plastic sometimes burns alongside the wood, adding a bitter, acrid taste to the bread. But even that bread, tasting of smoke, is a treasure in the middle of this relentless famine.
By midday, the eldest daughter heads outside to wash the family’s clothes. Her younger sister follows, carrying soap and handing over the dirty laundry. There is no warm water here, only barrels of icy, bone-chilling liquid. She plunges her hands into the freezing water and begins scrubbing. Within minutes, her fingers turn red, and cracks appear on her skin.
With cracked hands and freezing water, the girl washes the family’s clothes. Photo: Maimouna Al-Haj
She cannot stop. If the clothes are left damp for too long, they will start to mold. Ignoring the pain, she continues washing, pressing down harder with every stroke. Her hands hurt, but she dips them back into the cold water.
“Pain is just part of life,” she whispers, focusing on the task as if the thought will numb her hands.
As the evening sets in, the family gathers around the small fire inside the tent. There isn’t much to eat—just a thin soup that barely warms their insides—but they share it with quiet smiles. Rain continues to drip through the ceiling, landing directly on the youngest daughter’s head.
“There’s one drop here… and another there!” she laughs, pointing up.
Her laughter spreads, and soon the entire family chuckles softly. In moments like this, it feels as if laughter is their only shield. The eldest son places a bucket under the leaking spot, trying to catch the drops before they flood the floor.
As the day ends, the mother lies down beside her children, pulling whatever blankets she can find over them. The blankets are damp, but at least they provide some warmth. Outside, the rain falls steadily, the sewage rises, and the cold wind continues to blow.
Each night, they fall asleep, unsure if they will wake up again. But still, they close their eyes with hope—that maybe tomorrow will bring the end of their suffering. Yet when dawn breaks, they will wake to the same crushing reality, the same hunger, the same cold, and the same fight to survive.
Inside this small, fragile tent, the family’s spirit appears unbreakable.
* The family asked not to be named for reasons of personal security.
