we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The war has taken away the audio rhythm of our lives.
The Nikah day for a friend of Nadera; this is the ceremony where the sound of the groom and bride reciting their wedding vows can be heard. Photo: Deema Alshaer
From birth certain sounds have lived with us, shaping the rhythm of our days and giving us a sense of continuity and peace. The bustling markets, children laughing, the calls to prayer echoing through the city, and even the waves crashing on the shore—these were not just sounds, but symbols of life in Gaza.
Since Oct. 7, 2023, these sounds have vanished, replaced by a deafening silence and broken only by the roar of explosions and subsequent cries for help.
For a long time, the call to prayer from Gaza’s mosques stopped. Its absence was more than a loss of religious ritual, it was a disconnection from time and spirituality. During Ramadan last March 2024, the call to prayer returned in some areas, bringing a fleeting sense of peace amid all the destruction. But that didn’t last long.
After a brief pause in the violence, the war is back again, making us struggle to dream of our lives and our survival. We no longer hear even the muffled calls to prayer through the rubble of bombed mosques.
In Gaza, mornings once began with the crowing of roosters, followed by street vendors’ calls:
“Laban, bayed, jebneh!”
“Milk, eggs, cheese!”
Then came the voices of children on their way to school, singing, and repeating lessons in unison with their teachers. But during the war, there were no sounds from roosters, vendors, schoolchildren—just silence.
Instead, each day began with the question: “Are you still alive?” before learning who had been martyred overnight.
And now, some schools make tents for the students; not all of them, but some. Their voices have returned, but it’s not close to how it was.
Before the war, Gaza’s markets were alive with voices. Vendors advertising their goods, taxis honking, and shoppers with their lively chitter chatter.
After our markets turned to rubble, the noise of life was replaced by an eerie silence. The only sound that remained was the hurried footsteps of those fleeing from one area to another, desperately seeking safety in a place where nowhere was safe.
Weddings in Gaza were always filled with the beats of drums, the melodies of flutes, and the echoes of traditional songs. The wedding day was like any in the world, the bride wears a white dress, enters with her groom while their favorite song is playing between the guests’ conversations.
Also, before the wedding, we had many parties such as the “Hinna” party. This is where the bride and her friends wear embroidered dresses and dance with traditional and local songs at the beginning of the party. Then the party turns simpler, with Egyptian, Lebanese, Syrian, and other songs.
But the war stole even these moments of happiness. After the humanitarian ceasefire in 2025, weddings returned, but without music. Grief was still too heavy in our hearts. Even birthdays went uncelebrated, not only because sweets were scarce, but because so many loved ones were no longer there to share the moment.
No one can silence the sea, yet war makes it unreachable. Israeli snipers shot at anyone who dared approach it, so its waves crashed in vain, unheard by those who once found solace in its rhythm.
The sea, once a refuge, became a forbidden place—only a memory from the past. How I miss the sea and its memories with my family and friends. I remember how we used to run into its arms, how children built castles in the sand, and how loved ones sat quietly by its edge. How can it be a year and a half since we have been there while we all live so near?
During the brief humanitarian ceasefire of 2025, some sounds of life slowly returned, but they were not the same. People went back to the sea, but silently without joy. Children played in the streets, but carefully among the ruins. Markets reopened, but timidly with a heavy silence.
Gaza has changed, and so have its sounds. Many voices that once filled the air are now gone forever.
War does not only kill, it steals voices, it takes away sound, leaving behind a silence that is impossible to fill.
Gaza is trying to find its voice again, but will it ever sound the same? Or will the silence from this war linger over our lives forever?
Now, the war had come again, and our attempts to hear our life were in vain.
