we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
I have inherited a legacy of exile, a longing for home, and a steadfast resolution to remain in our land.
A mango tree in Palestine. Photo: Nada kareem22, Creative Commons 4.0
I spent my entire childhood by my grandfather’s side. I loved eating fruit with him, and whenever he bought mangoes from the market, he would return home and call me in his warm, affectionate voice, saying, “I brought you the mangoes you love, my dear.”
I would rush down, kiss his wrinkled face—marked by the years he had lived—thank him, and start eating mangoes with him. Their taste was incredible, as if they were infused with honey. I always wondered why mangoes tasted sweeter with my grandfather than any other mango I had ever eaten in my life.
As we ate, we would talk, and I would always ask him about what had happened to him during the Nakba of 1948. His voice shifted from warmth and tenderness to deep sorrow and regret.
He would recount how they had awakened to the sounds of gunfire, the stench of death filling the air, and the shadow of death chasing them relentlessly.
His mother had no choice but to gather her children, her husband, and the little they could carry, fleeing from Barbara, the town where he was born, towards Gaza. He had seven brothers and two sisters, and all of them were under the age of 16.
“The journey was long,” my grandfather would say. “We walked hundreds of kilometers on foot, never stopping.”
“Hunger and thirst were our constant companions during this brutal, deadly exodus. I cried to my mother, ‘I will die of thirst, Mother!’ She walked, asking everyone she met for water, but to no avail—everyone was suffering just as we were.”
After days of hardship, my grandfather finally reached Gaza safely. The Israeli occupation had attacked almost all areas of Palestine except for Gaza.
Gaza served as a safe haven where Palestinians, who were forced to leave their homes, sought refuge.
He settled in the Al-Shati refugee camp, which was filled with tents sheltering those who had been forcibly displaced from their homes. The tents were made of fabric that let in raindrops and was battered by the wind.
But despite being surrounded by neighbors who had also been forcibly displaced, he always felt a deep loneliness—a stranger in a place that was not his home.
In his old village of Barbara, my grandfather’s family owned hundreds of dunams of land, planted with everything one could desire. It was a vast land filled with vegetables and fruits.
His mother, whom he always described as kind and loving, took great care of their home. Their land was so large that, at its center, she had placed a simple table made from tree wood. They would sit around this modest table, drinking tea and enjoying warm family moments.
When he was forced to flee, his mother took the house key, keeping it as a sacred relic for years. When her health deteriorated, she passed it on to my grandfather, who, in turn, passed it on to my father, urging him to protect it.
My grandfather always dreamed of returning to his homeland. His life in exile was simple but rich with memories, memories that never left him.
On the morning of October 8, 2019, I woke up as usual, prayed Fajr, got dressed, ate breakfast, and went to visit my grandfather. His health had severely deteriorated; cancer had drained his strength, leaving him unable to move or speak much.
My father told me to delay my school departure because we had to take my grandfather for his routine medical checkup, a ritual we had followed for three years. As we drove together, he placed his frail hand on mine and whispered in his gentle voice, “May God bless you, my dear.”
That was the last time I heard his voice.
When I returned home from school, I saw all my uncles, aunts, and cousins gathered at our doorstep. Their faces were heavy with sorrow, and my aunts were dressed in black. A deep fear gripped me—what had happened?
My aunt Hanaa broke the silence: “Your grandfather has passed away, Zina.”
Her words struck me like lightning. How? I just saw him this morning. He was still alive!
I lost my grandfather that day. But I never lost his memories, nor his stories—stories filled with both sorrow and the unwavering hope of one day returning home.
On the morning of October 7, 2023, the sound of rockets shook our world. I was supposed to go to school, but instead, war erupted around us. The situation worsened, and we were forced to leave our home—our warm, safe home—seeking refuge at my aunt’s house just a few hundred meters away.
But soon, even that was not enough. The occupation ordered us to evacuate northern Gaza and move south. They rained down leaflets warning us, and Israeli soldiers called repeatedly, demanding that we leave.
Fear crept into our hearts. What were we supposed to do? Should we abandon our home and flee, suffering the same fate as my grandfather? Or should we stay and risk death, clinging to the land that defined us?
One night in late November, as bombs rained down and the air reeked of blood, my father gathered us and said, “Now, you must decide—do you want to stay in the north, or should we flee?”
I looked at him and replied, “I trust your judgment, Father. You know what’s best for us.”
He ran his hands through his hair, eyes filled with uncertainty. “I never imagined I’d have to make such a decision,” he muttered.
I remembered my grandfather’s words about the Nakba of 1948, and I told my father firmly, ”I do not want to suffer like Grandfather did. I would rather die in the north than live the life of exile and displacement.”
But survival became impossible. Food and water ran out for months.
We longed for just a single piece of fruit or a small handful of vegetables. Those who had even the tiniest morsel of food were seen as the luckiest people alive. Yet, despite everything, we refused to let go of our love for the land.
Even when I was displaced from my home in the north of Gaza Strip to the west of Gaza, the memories of my home haunted me. Not a minute would pass without me remembering my house and my memories.
In May 2024, we made a decision—we would return home, rebuild what we could, and live there once more. I believed that once I was back, all the pain would fade, and I would find solace in our walls and memories.
I was wrong.
That day, while my parents and younger siblings went ahead to clean and prepare the house, I stayed in the temporary shelter we had rented in Beit Lahia, just half a kilometer away.
A sudden wave of unease washed over me—an indescribable sadness. Then my 20-year-old brother, Ziyad, burst into the room, his voice trembling with fear and grief.
“They bombed the house while our family was inside… they’re in the hospital.”
His words shattered me.
I said no, refusing to believe my brother that my family had been hurt. I kept telling myself that my family was fine and nothing had happened to them.
Ziyad sighed heavily, his voice breaking. “I wish I were wrong… but I got a call from a friend. He saw them in the hospital.”
I sat there, staring at the clock. The seconds crawled by, as if time itself was climbing an endless mountain, burdened by an unbearable weight.
An hour later, my family returned. My mother had suffered serious injuries to her neck and spine.
I had thought going home would heal us. Instead, it had broken us further.
When the war finally ended, we went back. But there was no home to return to.
Tea being made in the window of the Nassar’s destroyed home, on the first day back after the January 19 truce. Photo: Ahoud Nassar
We walked over mountains of rubble. It took 15 minutes just to cover the first hundred meters, stepping carefully over the wreckage of what was once our sanctuary.
I entered my grandfather’s old room, picked up his Qur’an, kissed it, and held it tightly to my chest.
I remembered how he used to read from it every day, how he always spoke about his longing for his homeland, and remain steadfast in our land.
For years, I had never truly understood his words.
Now, standing among the ruins of our home, with nothing but memories and ashes around me, I finally do.
