we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Between borders and uncertainty, we fight to live, learn, heal, and hope again.
Zamalek, Egypt. Photo supplied by the writer
After months of facing the war in Gaza, thousands of Palestinians crossed the Rafah border into Egypt carrying grief heavier than their bags. They left behind shattered homes, missing relatives, and a city that no longer exists. Many thought that crossing the border would bring relief. But they found other struggles and questions that have no answers. Their new life is not peace; it is temporary survival.
Every Gazan who crosses into Egypt is given a short tourist visa usually valid for 35 to 45 days. When that time ends, so does their legal presence. They cannot renew it or apply for asylum.
According to Refugees International, nearly 100,000 Palestinians who fled Gaza since the war began were given these short-term permits, which soon expired, leaving them undocumented, unprotected, afraid to walk freely and afraid of checkpoints. And without refugee status, Gazans in Egypt cannot work legally, open bank accounts, rent homes safely, or send their children to public schools.
For anyone who left the war in Gaza, leaving Egypt is almost impossible. We are unable to obtain visas, and no country is willing to accept us except for students who manage to earn scholarships and can then secure a visa.
As one of those who survived, I continued to move forward like thousands of scattered Gazans abroad, resisting surrender as we were accustomed to in Gaza even when we were far from it. After my master’s studies in Gaza were disrupted by the war, I applied for a scholarship to continue my higher education at HEC Paris, one of Europe’s top business schools, and I was accepted. It was a dream I built and saw getting closer step by step. But the travel visa was not issued in time; my passport was held for months until the permitted date for arriving on campus had passed, and with it, the dream I had worked tirelessly for was lost.
For days, I felt as if everything I had built had fallen apart but I did not allow despair to seep into my heart. Gaza taught me that getting up after every fall is a duty, and that surrendering is not an option, no matter how great the losses.
Without work permits, most Gazans try to survive through informal jobs. Many women cook and sell traditional Palestinian dishes like maqluba and musakhan, or make and sell embroidered crafts from their homes. Others clean houses or give private lessons to children. Some men open small restaurants, cafés, or delivery services, often hiring other Palestinians to work. The pay is not that much, but for many, it is the only way to keep going.
A small café that sells ice cream by Palestinians from Gaza. Photo supplied by the writer
According to the UNHCR, Egypt hosts nearly 1 million refugees and asylum seekers from different countries. Yet, most Gazans who arrived after the war are not officially registered and live without legal protection or support. Their savings are gone, and the aid that reaches them barely covers a week’s needs like food, transport, or medicine; all have become hard to afford.
The rent prices have also increased. Apartments can reach more than 20,000 Egyptian pounds ($400) a month in areas like Nasr city in Cairo, where many Palestinians live.
Since the war began in October 2023, thousands of Palestinians have been evacuated from Gaza for medical treatment. But for many patients, it has become another kind of struggle. Hospitals are full, doctors are exhausted, and complex cases like cancer often go untreated for months. For cancer patients, this means incomplete therapy, delayed tests, and worsening conditions.
Mazenah Ahmed, is one of those patients. She is 52 years old and has breast cancer. She left Gaza carrying her medical papers and a small bag, believing she would receive proper treatment. She stays in Al-Mansoura hospital.
“We share a small room with more than six patients and their companions,” she said. “The air is heavy, the bathrooms are dirty, and there’s no privacy at all. They give us medicine, but we don’t even have a pocket of money for our daily expenses. We live on whatever little donations people offer. It feels like we escaped one kind of suffering only to fall into another.”
“Private hospitals could offer better care, but their costs are far beyond reach especially for us, the displaced families who lost everything in Gaza,” Mazenah added.
Evacuating the sick from Gaza was meant to save lives, but without consistent support, many of these lives remain on the edge. Healing is not only about medicine; it is about care, dignity, and the chance to live with hope again.
For Gaza’s youth, education has always been a form of resistance and a way to fight despair. A report titled No Status, No School: Palestinian children in Egypt describes how bureaucracy, high fees, and exclusion block access to education.
Palestinian mother Amany Kamal has struggled to find a way for her children to continue their education after fleeing Gaza. Since arriving in Egypt, she said, every attempt to enroll them in school has failed.
“We tried for eight months,” she explained. “But as Palestinians without legal residency, my children were denied admission everywhere.”
Her children, like many others, were left without access to even the most basic right: to learn. “They are in their early years and It broke me to see them sitting at home,” she said.
When the Palestinian Ministry of Education in the West Bank launched an online learning initiative, Amany signed them up, hoping it would offer some continuity. But the reality was disappointing.
“Each online class has a hundred students, so real learning is almost impossible,” she said. “The lessons were only fragments of the curriculum—there was no focus, no motivation. My children just stared at the screen. They need a real classroom, a teacher—not a voice behind a screen.”
Despite receiving certificates, Amany believes her children gained little academically. Weak internet connections, limited materials, and isolation left them frustrated and unengaged.
“They used to tell me, ‘Mama, we want a real school, not online,’” she recalled.
For Amany, education in exile has become another daily battle, one that goes beyond lessons and grades. It’s about preserving her children’s sense of normalcy and hope in a life uprooted by war.
The war may be miles away, but the grief travels with us. Every Gazan abroad has invisible wounds. They wake up to news of more destruction, more deaths back home. Many of us lost parents, siblings, friends, some buried under rubble, others still missing.
I think the war didn’t stop when we left. It just changed shape. When I fled out of Gaza, I had trauma and the aches of war still running inside my mind. At night, I dream of bombs, of home, of losing my family who are still there. I wake shaken, heart pounding, as if the war never left me.
According to Afnan Ali, the operational manager of the Lemon Tree Collective — a community initiative working with displaced Palestinian families in partnership with Deep Solidarity e.V. in Germany — the psychological toll on children is immense.
She explained that many parents misunderstand their children’s behavior after the war, mistaking signs of trauma for disobedience. Through her work in positive discipline and conscious parenting, she helps parents understand that these reactions come from deep emotional pain, not bad behavior.
“We try to help families see the reason behind each child’s behavior,” she said. “When we understand the reason, we can start to heal.”
Afnan shared a case of a displaced family of 16, mostly women and children. Many of their husbands remain trapped in Gaza; some were killed. Among the 10 children now living in Egypt, one 7-year-old girl suffers from severe bed-wetting caused by trauma. Her sister, who was pulled from the rubble during an airstrike, now has nerve damage in her eye and needs surgery. Both girls live with fear so deep that even small noises make them tremble.
“These children carry memories no child should ever have,” Afnan said. “Their bodies remember what their minds can’t express.”
Al-Dar, a small restaurant that recently opened in Egypt; its proprietor and all its workers are from Gaza. Photo supplied by the writer
Our biggest fear isn’t only what we’ve lost, it’s what we can no longer see ahead. We are stuck in between. We can’t go back, and we can’t move forward. Some countries speak of helping refugees from Gaza, but few have opened their doors. Egypt allows us to stay for now, yet gives no clear path forward. Some of us dream of resettlement. Others still hope for a return. But for now, we are caught in limbo waiting, uncertain, afraid of what comes next.
Sometimes I sit beside my window, watching the busy streets of Cairo, and I wonder: Will I still be here next year? Will I ever go home? Will Gaza still exist the way I remember it?
I think about the girl I was in Gaza, full of life, laughter, and plans, living without fear in a city that felt like home. Now, sitting in a small room in Cairo, my dreams have changed, but I’m still holding on to the same determination. I don’t know when or where I’ll be able to start again, but I know I must. Because for me, and for so many of us, surviving is not enough. We want to live, to learn, to rebuild, to belong again.
I write these words not only for myself, but for all of us who crossed that border. We are more than numbers. We are people carrying stories, pain, and an unbroken love for the home we lost.
Our lives may be on hold, but our voices are not. We are Palestinians, and we are still here.
