we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
We charge our laptops as though they are lifelines—because they are.
Building my future in the co-working space. Photo: Logain Hamdan
It was Summer 2024. The air was heavy with tension, and the sound of firestorms was a reminder of how fragile life in Gaza had become. I sat down to think. I would say, “I sat at my small desk in my dimly lit room.” But this time, there was no desk, no room—I was just wandering in someone else’s house in search of a power source to light up my laptop screen. The internet, too, was gone since the war began.
We were stuck in survival mode, waiting for each day to pass and never moving forward. A life with no progress. A meaningless existence. One sentence echoed in my mind: “This isn’t my life.” But the truth was that I felt powerless to change even the smallest thing about my own path. All my beloved friends were abroad, healing through achieving their goals, while I was watching from afar.
I often felt alone. My efforts went unnoticed, my potential unseen. And yet, I pushed myself. I tried, again and again, to return to Flutter programming (a mobile development field). I applied to universities abroad to pursue my bachelor’s degree. I received offer letters from five UK universities and a student exchange program in Malaysia. But I couldn’t accept any of them: The border remained closed. Life, once again, had left its mark to ensure that no dreams come true here in Gaza.
I needed to breathe, to escape from my thoughts, and to hide from myself. I took a leisurely walk with my inspirational friend, Najeia Tammous. We went to the sea—the one place in Gaza where we could remember a life exists beyond the rubble. Here the air was still clean and the world refused to be ruined.
Najeia has been one of my closest friends for over seven years. She is a talented UX/UI designer and an excellent IT student. Like everyone in the tech field here, we face the same struggles.
Our talks that day sparked something inside me. She’d made a bold decision—to live through the war and normalize it. She chose to stop measuring life by danger, necessities, or basic needs.
As we talked, I stared at Najeia in disbelief. “Is that even possible?!” I asked.
She smiled and said, “No, it’s not. But it’s worth trying.”
I replied, “Even if we die freelancing? Or get wounded to just code lines?”
She looked at me calmly. “Whatever Allah’s written for us, we’ll see it. We just need to make the genocide our background—not our defining standard.”
On my way back home, I asked myself: Why was I letting the war dictate my future? If Najeia could keep moving forward, why couldn’t I? We adapt, and every line of code I write is a reminder that I’m still here.
Najeia and I attended the “Top Achievers” ceremony at Islamic University of Gaza—before the war. Photo: Logain Hamdan
Before the genocide, I would have described myself as a bright, ambitious computer engineering student, determined to make my mark in tech. Ranked among the top in my college, I joined Gaza Sky Geeks’ mobile development course.
Beyond academics, I poured myself into youth initiatives, entrepreneurship competitions, leadership roles—organizing community projects, leading training sessions with Amideast. By September 2023, I’d finished specializing in Flutter with high hopes of advancing my skills and becoming financially independent. Then, the war came and I was frozen in place.
But not anymore.
For the first three months of the war, I walked every day to our relatives’ house in order to access electricity and a stable internet connection. While struggling to piece together my shattered dreams, I was also fighting to hold my family together. As the eldest daughter, responsibility weighed heavily on me. My older sister lives abroad, and my mother, a pharmacist, works double shifts with days at Shuhada’ Al-Aqsa Hospital in Deir Al-Balah and nights at the MSF field hospital, tending to the wounded.
It was a harsh routine. My days began at 6 a.m. with cooking and cleaning before I set out on a grueling walk under Gaza’s burning sun. There was no transportation and no safe passage. Exhaustion seeped into my bones before I’d even opened my laptop. I stole four hours a day for my freelance work, but it was never enough time to take on complete projects.
I started to push harder. I moved to a co-working space, not only adding four miles to my daily walk but also paying five shekels (around US $1.40) per hour for the use of the desk. It was a choice I couldn’t afford but I couldn’t refuse either. My beloved father, whose support sustains our family, squeezed my shoulder and said, “If you believe it, then go.” Every step screamed the same question: “Why won’t the world slow down for us?” But as 8 billion people race forward, stopping means being left behind.
The call to Fajr pierces the dark silence, and I rise with quiet urgency. On the prayer mat, I press my forehead to the ground and whisper the same du’a: “Ya Allah, open doors my hands have knocked on until they’re raw. Please don’t make my sacrifices mean nothing.”
Breakfast is comprised of whatever is there—yesterday’s bread, a can of fava beans, the last of the olives. I eat quickly with my family. The humble coffee, shared with my father, is made from whatever the market offers and is virtually tasteless.
Every morning, I race against the sun at the end of summer and the rain as the winter begins. I have no cars or umbrellas to carry me along the way. My laptop bag is heavy with dreams.
And yet when I arrive at the co-working space, all my negativity fades away. Around me, a vast generation of freelancers fight with the same passion. Their screens are glowing with codes, designs, translations, and marketing plans. Here we’re united, and fighting side by side.
My Flutter workspace—every line of code I write is a reminder that I’m still here. Photo: Logain Hamdan
Nine hours. Ten. My back aches from a plastic chair that seems designed to punish ambition. When my eyes blur, there’s no bathroom to splash water on my face. When hunger gnaws at me, there’s no food to buy, no coffee break to steal. When I need to rest, there’s nowhere decent to sit.
The sun sets. Maghrib finds me exhausted, but I whisper again: “This is the price. This is how futures are bought.”
The question haunted me. Employers hesitated: “You’re from Gaza?’ A pause. Then the inevitable: “But … there are no companies operating there now. Show us real projects, not just training.”
But how, when war has destroyed everything?
I remember one day in particular. I was trying to meet a deadline. Night fell, and I was alone at the co-working center. I was afraid, but I can’t work at home so I had to stay till I finished. Without warning, my tears began to fall. I felt desperate: Just let me finish this.
My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since morning. Logic says humans need food to function, but no—we’re not humans here, we’re supposed to be superheroes! And the whisper continued: If I ask for an hour’s extension, another developer in a peaceful country, sipping coffee in a warm office, will snatch this chance before I can blink.
Every task felt like a battle, but the consolation was, “One day, the world will see what a girl from Gaza can really do.”
So I built a portfolio. I applied for hundreds of jobs and internships. I took unpaid projects and developed “trial applications” for interviews. At night I pressed my face into the pillow so my family wouldn’t hear me cry. Doubt crept in: Am I not good enough? Or is it just because I’m here in Gaza?
By morning, I’d be back at my laptop. War has taken enough. It won’t take my future, too.
I landed my first freelance project in December 2024, when the notification hit my screen: “Are you free to take this App?” In that moment, I felt a reminder of why I’d chosen this path. Looking back, I now understand. The endless “no’s” were the hammers that shaped my work experience—an experience forged through coding, despite the genocide, and networking, despite displacement, and all the time while the world tried to erase us.
And here I am. Clients know me for two things—speed, and damn reliable work. No fluff, no excuses, just results.
Today, we—the freelancers from Gaza—still fight. Our office is whatever corner has electricity. Getting to work is tough. We sleep to evacuation orders, and we wake up to meetings and submissions. We charge our laptops as though they are lifelines—because they are.
Some see survival as priority. We see it as the first draft of our success story.
On their CVs, some people write: “I work under pressure.” Now, I can confidently state in my CV: “I work under war.”
