we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Umm Mohammad, a wife and mother of five sons, is all alone, engulfed in the grief of loss and longing.
Umm Mohammad Khalill once lived a simple yet beautiful life with her five sons and her husband. Their mornings were filled with warmth, laughter, and the comfort of family. Every day, they gathered around the breakfast table, sharing meals and moments of peace in a home blessed with love and security.
Fridays held a special place in Umm Mohammad’s heart. It was a day of rest for her husband and children—a day she cherished. She would rise early, prepare her special mint tea, bake biscuits, and sit with her family as they shared conversations about life and the world around them. Afterward, they would walk together to the mosque for Friday prayers. With her tender hands, Umm Mohammad would prepare lunch, the aroma of her cooking filling every corner of their home.
Once the meal was done, her children and husband never failed to thank her for the delicious food. She would smile at them and reply with words full of love and care: “May God bless you and protect you from all harm.”
The nightmare began on October 10, 2024, during the brutal invasion and siege of Jabalia. Their home, once a haven, became a prison surrounded by the buzzing sound of a quadcopter drone.
Umm Mohammad recalls that after they finished their meal and tea that day, they suddenly found themselves trapped, surrounded by the quadcopter hovering above them. The drone loomed overhead as the northern Gaza sky rained down relentless missiles. Tanks advanced toward them, tightening the siege.
By mid-November, they had run out of food and water. Death felt inevitable. Desperate, Ahmad, Umm Mohammad’s son, volunteered to go in search of supplies. The closest house, that of a family friend, was 300 meters away.
She asked Ahmad to try the neighboring homes, hoping he could find something—anything—to keep them all alive. She waited for his return, each minute dragging like a heavy stone on her frail heart. She imagined him returning safely with food and bottles of water, which they had long been deprived of.
An hour after Ahmad entered the house of their friends, the bombing started. A barrage of shells rained down without mercy. A fire broke out, trapping Ahmad inside. Umm Mohammad heard her son’s desperate screams for help. She could do nothing. The drone hovered above, watching, ready to strike anyone who tried to help.
Two young men from the neighborhood tried to reach Ahmad, but the drone opened fire, killing them instantly. Ahmad’s screams echoed through the neighborhood—his voice filled with terror and the certainty of death. For 15 agonizing minutes, his cries continued before they finally fell silent. The fire raged on until the house was reduced to blackened ash.
When Umm Mohammad realized the screams had stopped, she knew her son was gone. Her own screams pierced the air, grief overwhelming her soul.
Their family, now broken and incomplete, regrouped—without Ahmad. Yet the siege of bombs and missiles did not stop. Hunger and thirst gnawed at them, death lingered nearby.
As the shelling intensified and tanks moved closer, Umm Mohammad’s remaining four sons made a painful decision—to flee from north Gaza and head west, hoping to survive.
Her sons kissed her hands and asked for her prayers. Her heart pounded with fear, not knowing what fate awaited them. But the family had no choice. Umm Mohammad stayed behind with her husband, Abu Mohammad, who was 70 years old. Alone, they waited for their fate. Their only hope was that, as is often the case, the elderly might be spared while the young men faced either imprisonment or death.
The morning after her sons left, Israeli forces stormed their home. Abu Mohammad was taken captive. Umm Mohammad, wounded by glass and debris, walked barefoot and injured for a kilometer towards western Gaza.
When she finally arrived, hope flickered in her heart. She thought her sons would be waiting for her. She believed her husband’s captivity was the worst thing that could happen to her. She had no idea… she had lost all her children.
The news of her sons’ deaths shattered what was left of her soul. The shock triggered multiple strokes. For 10 days, Umm Mohammad battled the effects of the strokes, her body weakened by grief. Slowly, she recovered physically, but the faces of her sons and husband never left her mind.
The cease-fire began, but Umm Mohammad’s pain remained eternal. She returned to her destroyed home, haunted by memories of her family. She searched through the rubble of her home, pulling out the clothes of her husband and children. She held them close, sobbing from the depths of her longing.
During every prisoner exchange, Umm Mohammad sits and waits—hoping, praying that her husband will return. But the wait is endless. He remains a prisoner. What breaks her heart the most is sitting alone at the dinner table during Ramadan. She breaks her fast in silence, feeling that her heart will stop from the weight of her sorrow for her children and husband.
Through her tears, Umm Mohammad asks the question that echoes in the hearts of countless Palestinian mothers: “Why? Why did all this happen to me?”
