we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
I am one of those who evacuated to the south and returned to the north of Gaza, to Al-Rimal, where I remain.
Tal Al-Hala, before the war. Photo: Dalia
Al-Rimal is a vibrant, upscale residential neighborhood, brimming with life. It captures the essence of Gaza City, serving as its heartbeat. It stands out for its advanced urban, economic, and educational development, and it features charming restaurants with breathtaking views of the sea, which always makes us forget we live in a besieged city. I grew up there, and then my family moved to a charming, close-by neighborhood, Tal Al-Hawa.
But Al-Rimal and Tal Al-Hawa have become ghost towns, their once lively streets now echoing with unsettling silence.
On the sixth day of the war, my family decided to evacuate from Tal Al-Hawa to Khan Younis in the south of Gaza, after we heard that other residents of our neighborhood had evacuated there.
My mother refused, convinced that there were no such safe places. We did not forget the previous deceptions of the occupation. All of us in Gaza have not yet recovered from the 2021 war and those before, which remain entrenched in our memory or, as I sometimes feel, the memories of which consume us like a wave. Osprey V, the Gaza-based rock band, aptly conveys these emotions through the powerful lyrics of its song, “Home”: “Destroy every brick of every wall / Dig deep inside throughout my soul.”
We have not recovered from the 2014 war, either. I remember it vividly though I was only 12 years old. War outpaces our youth, as we say in Gaza. It’s like a sickness that resurfaces after the doctors tell you that you are cured.
My mother told me about the tricks and crimes committed by the occupier in these wars — the idea of safe places is not the first trick they play to abate our fears! They also advise citizens to go back to their homes, assuring them it is safe after the evacuation. And when innocent civilians return home, they find death waiting for them.
My family was petrified at the thought of evacuating but we also wondered whether staying spelled certain death. We decided it would be best to move with other people so that we wouldn’t face death alone. My father looked at us mournfully and said, “Death with people is mercy on its own.” Gazans know this quote all too well. And so, we evacuated.
The decision both shocked and pained me. I felt lost, worrying one minute about my family’s survival and another minute, about leaving my cherished house. I cried until I had no tears left.
As we prepared our luggage I looked at the pictures my mother had proudly framed, especially those of the family when we were children and others as we grew. Those joyful memories of the past pierced my heart.
It was as if the world had shifted on its axis, and the shock of saying goodbye felt like I was losing part of myself and washing away the comfort and security I took for granted.
As we rushed in panic into the streets, fear echoed in all of our hearts. For a moment, I wondered if what I was living through was actually real or a nightmare.
Neighbors were bidding each other farewell as though they were seeing each other for the last time. I remember the resignation and sadness in their faces and how abandoned I felt in that moment.
I saw my father embracing his friend desperately, and I once again burst into tears. But as the eldest in my family, I try to set an example for my siblings. Zaid, a very cheerful child, was clutching my hands tightly. Only nine years old, he didn’t fully comprehend what was happening and his face appeared weary.
My mom was right. Within three hours of arriving in Khan Younis, a house next to the one we were staying in was bombed!
I was praying with my sister in our room, while my family was sitting in the living room watching the news on TV. A loud bombardment shook us and the electricity cut out.
My thoughts suddenly froze and I could not understand what was happening around me. But past wars are precious lessons in survival so we knew to rush to the living room to huddle together. As my sister Farah and I left our room, we found some rubble on the floor, which only increased our fear. The voices of our family had gone silent and the thought that they may had perished plunged us into sudden despair.
The hallway to the living room was shrouded in darkness as we grappled to the safest place in the apartment.
A deathly silence hung in the air until we heard my mother whisper her prayers for us. I thanked God for hearing her voice despite the fear that filled me. That she was still alive reassured me, but her prayers made my heart race even faster. Mama constantly recites Quranic verses to reassure our hearts, fervently imploring God from the depth of her heart to protect us out of fear of any distress that might trouble us. But now her voice betrayed her, and I knew something had gone terribly wrong.
At first, I could not see what happened because dust covered the house. My sister and I desperately searched for a light.
Zaid was sobbing uncontrollably, yelling, “Daddy, are you okay?” My father was suffocating from the dust and unable to breathe. Zaid pressed closer to him, reluctant to leave him; but at least his sobbing signalled that he was alive as I continued to search for the rest of my family.
I screamed for help and my mother asked me in panic, “Why are you screaming, Dalia?” From her question, I knew she could not see clearly, so I shone a flashlight towards her and noticed her face was lacerated from shattered glass and covered in so much blood that she could not see. Seeing my beautiful mother, her smooth skin torn and bloodied, paralyzed me.
But the worst was yet to come. We had not heard my brother Mohammed’s voice. My sister began screaming at the top of her lungs, calling out for him. We finally found him unconscious on the ground, the floor covered in his blood.
I will never forget my mother’s reaction at seeing her child critically wounded and unconscious from a head injury. When Zaid saw Mohammed, his idol, he was devastated and amplified his screams. We called out for help until our voices became hoarse.
As the dust infiltrated our lungs, my poor father collapsed. We were all coughing fitfully, barely able to see the light and trying to find our way out of the house.
The ambulance soon arrived and rushed my brother Mohammad to the hospital, taking my mother with him. My father subsequently joined them, and he prayed as he grasped my injured brother’s hands in his.
I will never forget that night, walking through the ominous darkness alone with my other siblings to the neighbors’ house where we stayed until morning, waiting for our family to be reunited. I felt lost and weak without my parents and brother. I pretended to be strong in front of my little brother, because he would not stop crying. But I also wanted to cry.
That night was incredibly tense and draining. No sooner had I fallen asleep from exhaustion than I would wake up suddenly, my mind restless and disoriented.
The next morning, I called my mother to ask about Mohammad. She explained that his skull fractures required a lengthy recovery period but would mend slowly, and the doctors had treated all his wounds. He would need one week to walk again. My tears fell as my mom described the injuries on Mohammad’s face, but knowing that he would recover gave us some relief.
After leaving the hospital, my family decided to brave the return to our home in Tal Al-Hawa, despite the danger of snipers against civilians on Salah El-Din Street. We had seen the occupation target civilian cars and the chances of falling victims to their sick delights struck fear in us.
We arrived safely, thankfully, but could not go home because everything around it was destroyed. My grandfather’s house in Al-Rimal was the only available option. We thought it would be better to stay with him, but the Israeli military obstructed us three times before we could reach him.
A street in Al-Rimal, before its destruction. Photo: Dalia
Destruction of Al-Shifa
Worse days lay ahead.
How can I forget that the Israeli army boasted in media posts, that we later watched, how they had “succeeded in obliterating the wealthy neighbourhood”? They crushed my hopes and dreams by destroying my university and home as well as the places brimming with memories and laughter that I had enjoyed with my friends.
I never thought I would hear soldiers (the most immoral army!) calling for everyone in Al-Shifa Hospital to get out. The hospital is located in the Al-Rimal area, and we could hear them from our windows. The military forces stationed their tanks on our street and cordoned off the nearby streets and hospital. We could hear but not see them and manoeuvred to close our windows before they noticed us. If they had seen us, they would have surely killed us.
Women began screaming frantically, unable to enter the hospital and rescue their children. I will never forget the screams of these desperate mothers as they prayed that their children’s lives would be spared.
Nor will I forget seeing so many lifeless bodies around me, unattended in the streets. We could not offer our martyrs a proper burial and we could not help those who were injured and needed our help for fear of the Israeli army shooting us, too.
Despite the shells hitting our house, we remained in my grandfather’s home and today we live with the memories of such painful moments. Will we forget the voices that we heard? Will we forget the corpses we saw?
The lyrics of “Home” by Osprey V still echo: “We’ll scream in our pain; can you hear the call? Knock knock are you listening at all?” Their deep sorrow and anxiety saturates every corner of Gaza and speaks of our suffering. But is there a soul out there who will answer the call?
Before I sleep, I pray to wake up from this nightmare. But I also pray for the world to awaken, too.
