we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
I often run into young kids who come to me, begging for money. I usually cannot help.
Except from poster by Waleed Shihab. Courtesy the Palestine Poster Project Archives.
When I walk from my university to the bus station to head back home, I often run into young kids who come to me, begging for money. When they give up on that, they nag me to buy them some sandwiches. I usually cannot help them because I already confront a critical situation in my own finances. But it truly and deeply hurts me to be unable to do anything for them.
I see the longing in their eyes. I look away, trying to convince myself they have a better life than I know they do. But then I notice the threadbare, obviously hand-me-down clothes on their thin bodies. I wonder how they cope with the coldness at night. What will be stronger, their immunity or the winter? Sometimes I feel very cold, even while wearing heavy clothes, and I sit in front of the heater to seek warmth. I bet these kids have no heater.
As time passed, I built a friendship with one of them. He had innocent, yet very old, eyes. His hair was soft, dark brown, a little bit long for a male kid in our society. I guess his parents don’t have enough money for a barber. Somehow, he felt familiar, like a brother or even a son, although I am not a mother. I found myself wondering about him a lot. I felt compelled to learn more about him, starting with his family. I was afraid he might be an orphan, but thanks to God he has a family.
He is 12 years old, a student in his seventh year at school, but he isn’t passionate about studying. He says, “It takes me nowhere. It makes no money at all. I think it’s a waste of time. So, I skipped a year while I sold biscuits and provide for my family.”
The youth has three sisters who, fortunately, married men from better financial backgrounds than their father’s (although not really good enough). They have daughters and sons now, and are also struggling. He also has eight brothers. One of them wants desperately to get engaged but cannot. He and another, older brother wake at dawn to go out and sell coffee and biscuits.
Sometimes, when money isn’t enough and people are reluctant to buy, he and his brothers beg. He thinks it’s shameful and even sinful, but they hav no other choice. They only manage to earn between $5-$10 each time. That’s barely enough to feed such a big family.
My young friend doesn’t blame his father for being unable to work due to several strokes. Despite his young age and unsophisticated, impoverished background, he knows that some of the blame for their situation belongs with the government and the Israeli blockade. I tend to also blame the parents for having “too many” children, but what right do I have to judge? Everyone longs for a family. It’s a basic need, and thus people marry without realizing the harsh challenges that may face them someday. Plus, I know that obtaining reliable and affordable birth control methods isn’t easy here.
My young friend says, “My mother loves children. She loves me. In winter, she prefers that I stay home and face hunger with them, than face the cold outside alone.” He believes that is a sign of true love. He wishes he was rich, but all he wants is for his family to be safe, warm and healthy.
With a heavy breath, he tells me he is fed up, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t discouraged and depressed. I hear him and realize that although he is just a child physically, in many other ways he is an overburdened, old man.
I ask him what he does when he wants to lift himself up. He says he often hides one or two shekels so he can go to a computer game shop and hang out. He also loves throwing his body into the sea, letting himself just float, imagining that he is a ship or a fish. And when it rains in winter, he collects the drops in his cupped palms until they form a tiny lake, and then splashes it over his face.
Suddenly, he looks at me and says, “You look familiar to me. You look like my neighbor, Heba.” He adds, “You are now more of a sister than a friend for me.” His words give my heart a quick flutter. I smile and say, “I think of you as my little brother too.” He points at another boy and says, “That one usually helps me. He feeds me because he’s like me. The rich don’t because they don’t know what it means to be like us.”
Our conversation gave me much to think about. I don’t know if he thinks I’m rich or poor compared to him, but while my pain is different from his, in other ways we are alike him, unable to help those we love. We are both Gazanas, and we are also locals. We have nothing to do with the politics that determine our destiny. And like him, I blame my own and the world’s governments for our plight.
My friend does not know I have written this story. I don’t know if he could even read it. He’s not good at school, since he is absent most days and doesn’t have enough time to study. There is nobody to mentor him.
I am very sad about my friend. I am sad my people are hungry, and must choose whatever work they can get over school. I cannot grasp the reason for the cruelty in this world. Yet I believe in God’s existence and mercy.
