we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
My sweet cat Mintos died last month. I wish I could have done more for him.
Mintos had large almond-shaped eyes the color of mint. Photo: Rama Hussain Abu Amra
Just one month ago, on August 19, 2026, my beloved cat, Mintos, stopped sleeping beside me.
For the past six months, Mintos had always slept next to me or at my feet. Mintos came into my life when he was only two months old. When I brought him home, he was so small, and everything about him seemed new to me. I had never cared for a pet this closely before and, from the beginning, I found myself watching over him, learning his habits, and getting attached to him without realizing how quickly he was becoming part of my life. I bought him a red collar and put it around his neck. I named him Mintos because his huge, almond-shaped green eyes reminded me of the color of fresh mint, and because his fur always seemed to carry a sweet, mint-like smell.
I first brought Mintos home because of the rats. With mountains of garbage everywhere and a destroyed sewage system, rats have become a serious problem in Gaza, spreading disease, and biting us while we sleep. I thought that having a cat to hunt them would be practical. Though Mintos was an excellent rat hunter, he very quickly became a part of my daily routine and, eventually, part of me.
He used to wake me every morning by kneading my face with his paws and greeting me with a warm meow. Whenever I left the apartment, he waited by the door and, when I returned, he called for me. He was playful, affectionate and endlessly curious. Anything that entered our home had to be inspected.
When Mintos became sick, I took him to the veterinarian, but they could not diagnose the problem. He stopped eating and drinking. His eyes changed color. His leg became swollen. Eventually, he couldn’t go to the bathroom by himself. He cried in pain and could barely move unless I carried him. I suspected he might have caught and eaten a poisoned rat, but the cause of his illness was never confirmed.
On the morning of his tenth and final day of illness, Mintos returned to sleep beside me. His face was haggard. His eyes, once large and expressive, had turned yellowish. I took him to Vet Care, a clinic far from our home, hoping that treatment would save him. He received fluids and medication and, for several hours that evening, he seemed better.
After 9 p.m, everything changed.
After ten days of barely moving, Mintos suddenly began running around the house in a panic. His breathing became faster, and he cried in a voice I had never heard before. He tried to hide on the highest kitchen shelves, as if he did not want us to see him suffering. We carried him to his favorite place and stayed beside him. His cries grew louder. His body became cold. His breathing came in broken, rapid gasps. He vomited, moved violently, and then died.
Mintos stayed in front of me for the rest of that night. I kept my hand on him, stroking him the way I always had, but this time his body was cold. I was crying, still unable to understand that he was really gone. It was already very late, too late to bury him that night, so he remained there until morning.
When daylight came, my brothers and I took Mintos to the sea and buried him there. I had spent ten days praying that he would get better, and now I was carrying him to a place where I had to say goodbye to him for good.
Before we buried him, I removed his red collar. It had looked so bright on him, and taking it off was the only way I felt I could keep a small part of him with me. I want to keep it forever, perhaps as a pendant, to remember the first pet I ever truly cared for and loved.
The next morning, I woke up crying and went back to see the place where he had been. I could not bear it. Back home, I still found myself looking for him. Memories of him were not tied to one corner of the house. They were everywhere — by the door where he waited for me, around my bed where he used to sleep, and in all the small spaces he had turned into his own.
My story with Mintos is not unusual. Bazzaz, another beloved cat in Gaza, suffered a similar decline leaving his owner, Heba, facing many of the same challenges. Bazzaz was born inside Heba’s home on May 12, 2025. He was the third kitten in his litter but the largest of his siblings, and he quickly became the family’s spoiled child. He loved sleeping beside Heba and would begin meowing around 10 p.m., asking her to go to bed with him.
His illness began on August 6, when he vomited repeatedly. Days earlier, Heba had noticed that his lower lip was swollen. A veterinarian initially wondered whether he had been bitten by something. Poisoning was also considered but Heba said Bazzaz never left the house and did not eat rats or insects. His treatment continued with fluids, antibiotics, and vitamins. One medication did not work, so it was changed. Heba was told to force-feed and hydrate him to keep him strong. But Bazzaz became weaker every day.
Bazzaz was the spoiled child of Heba’s family. Photo: Heba Hathat
By Friday morning, his tongue, teeth, and eyes had begun turning yellow. One of his legs became swollen, and he cried whenever he was touched. Around noon, he went to sleep in his usual place. When Heba returned around 2 p.m. to give him another dose of fluids, he did not respond.
Bazzaz was dead.
Heba was told that he might have needed a procedure involving tube feeding, but the equipment required for it was not available.
Two cats. Two homes. Two families who tried to keep their animals alive. Their stories are different, but they raise the same question: What happens when a beloved pet becomes critically ill in Gaza, but the tools needed to diagnose or treat it are out of reach?
A veterinarian at Vet Care, Dr. Motasem Kadoura, described seeing different forms of animal suffering throughout the war including malnutrition, food poisoning, and, during some periods, poisoning linked to rat bait. He said improper use of rat poison can put cats at risk when toxic substances are mixed with food or left in places they can get to.
Trying to save animals in Gaza is not always simple. Sometimes the problem is not just knowing what is wrong with an animal but having what you need to help it. There are medicines that are hard to find, tests that are not available, and equipment that vets simply do not have. With Mintos, I kept taking him back to the vet, hoping that the next visit would give us an answer or a treatment that would make him better. Instead, every day seemed to bring a new problem.
When I remember Mintos’ death, I also remember how he suffered while I searched for something more I could do. Sometimes when I wake up, I imagine Mintos standing in his favorite place in the house. For a second, I forget that he is gone. Then I remember the sea, the grave, and the cold body I held through the night.
And I wonder how many other animals in Gaza are disappearing quietly, while their owners are left asking the same question I still ask myself: What more could I have done to save him?
Sometimes I still imagine Mintos standing in his favorite place.
Then I remember that he is buried by the sea.
