we are not numbers

emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights

A man in a long-sleeve white shirt standing under a tree.

Shrapnel of hope: a father’s last lesson

‘In every moment, his image is before us as we continue the journey as he would have, if he were still here.’
Heleena Darwish
  • Gaza Strip
A man in a long-sleeve white shirt standing under a tree.
Omar Abu Ghali. Photo: Heleena Darwish

One morning, just like any other in Gaza, we woke up to the sound of loud explosions. It felt as though the ground beneath us was falling apart. There was no doubt: The war had returned, pounding on our doors without warning.

My heart was racing, fueled not just by fear but also by the memories I carried from past wars. Flashes of broken homes, silenced laughter, and tear-streaked faces flooded my mind, each memory a scar that time could not erase. The terrible moments when we lost a home, a loved one, our hope for refuge.

It wasn’t long before bombs rained down on us in random explosions. They painted the air with a heavy, acrid smoke that clung to our lungs. Our screams grew louder and louder; and we clung to one another, struggling to endure the overwhelming terror.

It felt as though we were living our final moments.

My family and I rushed to leave our home before a missile struck us. We hoped the nearby school would be safer. The streets had become a battlefield of rubble and despair. Faces around me reflected years of pain and endurance.

At the school, we gathered with our close neighbors and everyone else from the neighborhood, trying to find comfort in conversation amidst the madness. The schoolyard, once filled with the joyful noise of children, now echoed with whispered prayers. But everything stopped whenever we heard the sound of artillery fire getting closer. I didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, or even in the next moment.

Then the unimaginable occurred.

My father, Omar Abu Ghali, who was preparing to pray in a corner of the school, was struck by shrapnel. The air seemed to freeze as time slowed to a halt, the weight of that indelible moment crushing us all.

With that fragment of deadly debris, my father became a martyr at the very school we sought refuge in, a school where he had been a teacher. This was the same place where he had shaped young minds with his wisdom and kindness, where his laughter had once filled the halls.

He was loved by his students and colleagues, praised for his kindness. How could a man with such a pure heart, a teacher of generations, be suddenly killed in his own school? Oh, how harsh that scene was! How painful those moments were for everyone who witnessed them.

His body lay motionless. We stood there in a stunned silence louder than the explosions outside. It was a nightmare in every sense of the word, but not one from which I could awaken. In an instant our lives had turned upside down. We were in shock and consumed by fear, and we did not know what to do. Should we continue fleeing from the shelling and death as my father wanted? Or would we escape death only to meet it, as he did?

Days passed under a dark cloud of sorrow, our hearts full of uncertainty. We struggled to face the terrible truth. Why did this beautiful soul deserve to die? How could we move on without the one who had been our source of safety and pillar of love?

Yet my father’s spirit lingered close, reminding us of his unwavering strength and loving heart. We remembered another day when the sound of explosions had filled the air, and fear gripped our home. We huddled together, unsure of what would happen next. My father, calm as ever, encouraged us to share stories from our lives — funny moments, dreams, and even small victories. “Let’s fill this space with our voices instead of fear,” he said. We talked and laughed for hours, forgetting the chaos outside. In those moments, he was teaching us that even in the heart of war, we could create our own peace and find strength in each other’s company.

We recalled his generosity in opening our home to displaced families and to strangers, sharing what we had with people who had lost everything. His actions spoke louder than words, showing us all that peace is not given, but built through every small act of kindness.

Slowly, as these memories arose, we began to realize something important: Life, despite its harshness, goes on. Despite the wounds, despite the loss of loved ones, we had to stand up and keep moving forward. We understood that our father left us lessons that cannot be forgotten: Hope never dies so long as we nurture it; and every moment of our lives is a gift, even in the midst of darkness.

Day by day and step by step, we began to find our way toward healing. It wasn’t easy, but we knew that cultivating hope and resilience was the only way to survive and to keep our father alive in us. Despite everything we had been through, we were certain he did not die in vain.

Now we lift up the hope that Gaza will endure and that we will rebuild our lives. Our greatest longing is for the future to be better for all of us, that this war does not steal our dreams or our humanity. My father was a symbol of peace in the heart of war. In every moment, his image is before us as we continue the journey as he would have, if he were still here. We know that we cannot erase the pain or bring back what was lost, but we also know that we can honor his legacy by living into and sharing his lessons as we build our future.

In Gaza, hope is not just a feeling: it’s a way of life.

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