we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
To be a woman in war means to lose much of your femininity in order to survive.
A recent photo taken while cooking rice over an open fire with a soot-covered pot. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh
After more than a year and a half of destruction, hunger, pain, and physical, psychological, and mental exhaustion, the war is still not satisfied. It has worn down the young and the old, men and women, animals and trees alike.
And I, the delicate woman I once was, am no longer the same.
I have become more like a man than the woman I used to be before the war. I look in the mirror and do not recognize myself. I am lost amongst features that no longer resemble me, a body that has lost half its size, and hair that has turned dry and brittle, a stranger to care.
I wake up like a corpse that no longer knows the meaning of life, only to perform the routine tasks necessary to survive. I know nothing now of femininity, softness, or grace, for I live in a place that has no remaining trace of these things.
I stand in front of my closet and pick anything, knowing it will inevitably be dirtied by soot and look worn out. All my clothes have become like this already. And I cry when I remember how I used to search for a peach shade among hundreds of different colored dresses, while now I search only for clothes that do not smell of smoke.
I sit by the fire for long hours, sweating, exhausted, crying, blowing on the wood to make it ignite. My hands burn and are covered in soot and ash that is hard to remove. I have grown to hate coffee, knowing the time, effort, and spirit it will take to prepare it.
I feel stripped of femininity, burdened with the roughness of a man, as I sit in front of the fire trying to light it. I remember one night when I sat before the flames in unbearable heat, tears streaming down my face from the smoke; when I saw my hands in the light, I knew my femininity had fled me, never to return.
Our lives have become dull and silent. No one wants to talk or laugh. We cannot even joke or argue together. We search only for the people we once were.
Fire has become our life, meager food our sustenance, worn-out clothes our wardrobe, pale faces our reflection, the smell of smoke our perfume, and silence our speech.
I spend long hours drenched in sweat; there is no electricity, no fan, no air conditioner to cool me down. I look at my face and see fatigue, and at my hands and see them dry, covered in scars from breaking wood. I send my phone away to be charged in the morning, use it briefly with the very weak internet, and scroll through social media, amazed at all the traces of femininity women outside Gaza still have—traces I have been deprived of. I turn off my phone and remain alone with my thoughts that never stop, and the voices inside me. After more than a year and a half of this war, I have forgotten what the word “woman” means, and how to be one.
We wake each day only to wait for the time to sleep again. We try to make the day pass as quickly as possible, but it never does. The hard times live within us and take their time before taking their leave. The war has left scars that will not heal, wounds in the soul, and others on the body—turning it into something that is no longer recognizable as a woman’s body.
But will it ever return to what it was? Will we ever find the door back to a normal life? Will we ever know ourselves again? Will I ever be a woman again? Will the marks of war ever leave?
Nights pass with me asking these questions to myself, the answers to which I fear will not be beautiful. My mind drifts into memory, trying to remember who I was, what I used to do, and how I was a woman; and my eyes well with tears as I remember…
I used to walk for hours in the market looking for the perfect dress. I didn’t want pink, but a shade of peach. My drawers were full of nail polishes I might never use, but I was a woman, and a woman must have them. I would choose the perfect shade to match each outfit I wore.
My nails were beautiful, long, and clean, suited only for all that is beautiful. Ten pairs of heels were never enough, for I was pampered and needed more and more to be satisfied. Each place called for its own style, color, and look—and I was worthy of all of it.
Before the war, on an ordinary day in August 2023. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh
Lipsticks were another story. Each shade mattered, and even if it didn’t, it was still beautiful. Beauty was what I wanted. I had reds, berries, pinks, browns, and all the many shades.
I would be late for university because I couldn’t decide what to wear. I hated repeating the same outfit or settling for something dull. I loved being unique, graceful, and beautiful. I carried bright, shiny notebooks in my bag, never the plain kind; they were filled with colors and designs that pleased the eye, so beautiful that they made me want to study. My pens had to match, colorful and ornate.
I would come home from university like a princess tired from the sun. I would change into a delicate dress, spray on my favorite perfume, and dish out a plate of the delicious lunch my mother had cooked. I would never forget my iced coffee, which I made to the rhythm of my favorite song. I would sit in my room, happy, under the cool of the air conditioner, enjoying my coffee and the warm chatter of my family, our laughter, and even our shouting, always full of humor and joy.
I remember complaining about not having enough products for my body, face, and hair. I loved everything soft and everything that made me feel that way. I would spend long hours caring for myself, applying fragrant perfumes, expensive lotions, and natural oils to my hair. I would play a lecture on YouTube about a topic I loved, enjoying both the care and the learning at the same time. In those moments when there was no war, I felt my femininity in its fullest form.
