we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Throughout the war, members of my family were displaced, separated, humiliated, tortured, injured. Now we are back.
“When I returned home, it was as if my heart was back in its place,” says Nadeen Abo Al Aoun. “We will live here despite everything.” Photo: Hadeel Al-Ghandour
Fifteen months of brutal war had reduced everything around us to ashes. Our family was among hundreds of thousands of families who endured the bitterness of displacement and separation.
But on January 19, 2025, a proposed armistice came into effect, bringing an end to 470 days of bloodshed and devastation. Then on January 26, the impossible happened. After months of homelessness, desperation, and unbearable suffering, the war on Gaza ended, and we, the displaced Palestinians of Gaza, were finally allowed to return to our homes.
We walked for nearly 10 hours, in a sea of countless others making the same journey. Fear gripped me, knowing that my injury — one I had suffered during the past year of war — could worsen. But every time exhaustion threatened to overtake me, I reminded myself that at the end of this road, I would be home in Tal Al-Hawa, in northern Gaza. I would see my father again.
Clinging to that thought, I summoned every ounce of my strength and kept moving forward. The crutches that had once felt like a burden, a reminder of my pain, became a symbol of hope with each step I took.
When we reached a checkpoint with a sign that read, “Welcome to Gaza” it felt as though a sharp blade had pierced my heart. Overwhelmed, I sank to the ground, pressed my hands into Gaza’s soil, and let tears flow freely.
After hours of relentless walking, we finally arrived home.
Nadeen returned to a damaged, ransacked home. Photo: Nadeen Abo Al Aoun
The city had been completely destroyed by the occupation. As we stood amidst the ruins, scanning the waves of faces around us, we couldn’t spot my father. Anxiety tightened in my chest as we stood aside, searching desperately for him.
After what felt like an eternity, but was only five minutes, he appeared, that great man. His beautiful silver hair, his tender eyes, tired features, and the deep wrinkles carved by the war on his handsome face told a story of separation and longing. A story every Gazawi knows well.
We ran to him, embracing him in the middle of the street, oblivious to the world around us. For that moment, time stopped. The world had finally become safe. We were reunited with baba.
We all cried, and everyone around us cried with us.
My father held my mother tightly, whispering tenderly into her ear, “You have returned to me safely. May God protect you for me, my love.”
We sat on the rubble of our home, beside my father and mother, reminiscing about the days when we lived with dignity. How in just minutes, the Israeli occupation destroyed everything. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were finally together.
Despite the intensity of the war, my family — four brothers, four sisters, my mother, and my father — stayed together. We found solace in the warmth of my father and mother’s conversations, in our beautiful home, and in our cozy living room. We shared what little bread we had just to stay alive. Whenever we felt afraid, we read the Holy Qur’an together, finding comfort in its words.
But then on March 18, 2024, everything changed. It was the day our hell began, each of us imagining the worst.
At 12 o’clock noon, the shelling and missiles intensified around us, until the Israeli bullets began pounding against the walls of the home. The voices of the Israeli soldiers grew louder.
They were singing songs in Hebrew. We stayed inside our home until, at 1 o’clock, the soldiers’ weapons pounded on the door. A voice shouted in English, “Is there anyone here? We will destroy the house if you do not answer.” My father hugged us tightly, and with a moment of resolve, he opened the door.
We were shocked to see more than 20 soldiers behind the door, their weapons aimed directly at us. They ordered the children to come out first, followed by the women. As we stepped outside, they ordered us to sit on the ground, where shards of broken glass covered the area. Ten soldiers surrounded us, their weapons pointed at us, preventing us from moving and even from crying.
They took my father and brothers to a separate room. The officer began interrogating each one of us, starting with my father and working his way to the youngest child.
After hours of interrogation, the soldiers ordered us to walk through a line of massive Israeli tanks until we reached Al-Shifa Hospital. Once there, the officer ordered us to keep walking while they took the men inside Al-Shifa for further interrogation. I looked back for one last glimpse of my father, not knowing that I would not see him again for 10 months, 9 days, and 13 hours.
We walked randomly with despair, not knowing where to go or what to do.
We were met with a horrific sight — bodies and severed limbs scattered everywhere. Fear gripped us with every step until a woman’s voice called out from one of the nearby buildings, warning us that a sniper was ahead and that we should take cover and not move forward.
Desperate, I asked if she could hide us, and without hesitation she agreed. Had I known the cruel humiliation and suffering this woman would endure because she sheltered us, I would have taken my chances with the snipers ahead.
She opened the door to the building, welcoming us inside. We hurried to the seventh floor, where we took refuge with her and her children.
However, that safe haven did not last long. A few days later, the soldiers stormed into the building. Upon discovering that the house was sheltering refugees, they subjected us to a humiliating and degrading search.
As a cruel punishment, they ordered our hostess to strip in front of all of us. They violated the dignity of the women, touching their bodies inappropriately, and even searched the infants.
At 10 p.m. on that cursed day, the officer ordered us, along with our hostess and her children, to leave and head to the southern region. They warned her that her phone was bugged and would explode if she dared to call anyone or stop anywhere before reaching the south.
We had no food and no idea what would happen to my father and brothers. Desperate, I pleaded with the officer to let us stay until morning, but he shouted savagely, “You can walk by moonlight.”
Instead of one family of refugees, we were now two, forced to embark on an uncertain and dangerous journey together.
We walked with no clear direction, afraid and heart broken. The road before us resembled a scene of unimaginable horror — a place where a massacre had been committed. My mother kept searching among the corpses, scattered everywhere and soaked in blood, desperately looking for my father or my brothers.
We adults took off whatever we could spare from our modest clothing to cover the children, who were crying from the bitter cold, and so had to walk without outerwear. We were all crying — lost, hungry, and cold.
After walking continuously for 10 hours, we finally reached the south, where we parted ways. We stayed with an aunt, while our hostess found family members to shelter her and her children.
Crammed into a tiny room, we were 10 women and children, struggling to find space to rest. After two days, we moved into a small tent made of blankets. The conditions were unbearable — there were no basic necessities, no comfort, no escape from the harsh reality of our displacement.
Under those dire circumstances, I finally managed to contact a family friend in the vicinity of Al-Shifa Hospital. It was then that we learned that my father and two of my brothers had been released, but only after being subjected to severe torture.
Despite the pain we were going through, we felt a brief moment of relief. But the joy was short-lived. We still did not know what had happened to my older brother, the uncertainty weighing heavy on us. Then, after 15 long days, our worst fears were confirmed: The occupation soldiers had arrested him.
After 55 agonizing days, the Israeli occupation forces released my brother in the south. He had no phone, no belongings, just the weight of what he had endured. With the help of strangers, he managed to get in touch with me, his voice trembling through the crackling line.
The moment we saw him, our hearts shattered. His face was pale, his body frail, and his clothes stained. Deep bruises covered his wrists where the cuffs had dug into his skin. His once-bright eyes were clouded with exhaustion and pain, as if he had aged years in just weeks.
He told us of the torture and injustice he had endured during those 55 days. He had been handcuffed and blindfolded the entire time, left in darkness, deprived of sleep, and barely fed. The interrogations were relentless, as were the shouting, beatings, hours of psychological torment. He spoke in a hollow voice, as if part of him was still trapped in that cell with all those lost souls.
We listened, our hands trembling, our hearts aching.
Days passed heavily, and like all Gazawis, our lives have been caught in endless waves of suffering and pain since the war began.
On July 23, my little brother and I were struck by a shell fired from an Israeli occupation tank. I felt no pain, only terror at the sight of so much blood.
We clung to each other and crawled to the edge of the road, hiding for an hour, fearing the snipers’ bullets. Time blurred. We spoke to each other as if we were saying our final goodbye, as if we had already left this world. Then, the distant wail of ambulances interrupted our conversation, pulling us back. Moments later, we were transferred to the hospital.
Our treatment lasted two months, but we never received the full care we needed because it simply was not available.
Today, after the nightmare of war has passed, the time for healing begins — but in the midst of uncertainty. We do not know if the ceasefire will hold, if the war has truly ended, or if we will be forced into yet another displacement.
I need a bone graft in my foot, but this type of treatment is unavailable in the besieged Gaza Strip. I have been waiting for months to receive medical care abroad, but even that comes with a heavy burden: the fear that if I leave, I may never be allowed to return to my beloved Gaza. The thought of being separated from my family again is unbearable. At times, I wonder if I would rather live crippled than endure that agony all over again.
I have long waited for the day I would apply for a job, when I would live my life relying on myself and become the person I aspire to be. But now the occupation has destroyed everything for me.
My greatest ambition has become to keep my family together, safe, and alive. I know that I am not the only person suffering from this war, but how much suffering must there be? All we, as Palestinians want, is to live in peace in our homes.
