we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The war turned a site for relaxation and refreshment into an insecure area that I only ventured to for internet access.
The Gaza seaport, 2018. Photo Obaida alnakhala, Creative Commons 4.0
Before the war, the port in western Gaza was my favorite place — my sanctuary. I visited it weekly with my family, finding peace in the rhythmic dance of the waves. I would sit for hours, lost in thought, planning my future, shaping my dreams. I loved tossing stones into the water, watching how the stillness transformed into ripples, how a single action could alter its state.
Before the war, I also used to browse the internet from the comfort of my room — my beautiful room, where I spent my childhood, where every detail held a memory. I would sit at my favorite desk, on my comfortable chair, connecting to the outside world through easy internet access, completely unaware that one day I would be forced to leave it all behind. That I would be uprooted from my home, my life, and my dreams of becoming a journalist.
Now, my visits to the port are not by choice but out of necessity — the only place I can access the internet and download the books that hold the key to fulfilling my dream. Once my refuge, the port has become a place of dread. Instead of serenity, I now feel the constant fear of airstrikes, wondering if this moment might be my last. And instead of the scent of the sea, the air is thick with the stench of death.
I have always maintained high grades and achieved excellent results throughout my school years and dreamed of achieving a distinguished grade in the Tawjihi exams. Having access to my books was essential to study toward reaching my dream.
I began my senior year in Tawjihi, studying diligently, staying up late at night, and sipping from my coffee cup that bore the words “I will achieve my dream.” Whenever I felt tired or bored, I would remind myself of my dream and ambition to become a journalist.
Even after October 7, 2023, when I began having to move from place to place, I kept studying by accessing my textbooks on the internet, and I constantly reminded myself that I would succeed and achieve my dream. I awaited the moment when the war would end, and I could return to my destroyed home and study there. I had only been able to see my home once since we were forced to leave, during a temporary ceasefire in November 2023. The shock of seeing my books scattered among the rubble and rain was overwhelming.
During those fleeting six days of ceasefire, I was able to sleep without the sound of bombs or gunshots and have breakfast with my family without the fear of losing anyone or myself. But then the war resumed, and the fear of death and loss came knocking at our door once again.
We returned to the routine of the war, constantly moving from place to place. We moved to 22 different locations, and with each new place, I lost more access to my books and a bit more of my ambition. I kept trying to reassure myself that these were hard days, but they would soon pass.
In early May 2024, we moved to the house of my father’s friend and I told myself, “Here, I will start again. I will adapt, forget the fear of death, and live to achieve my dream or die trying.”
Soon after, I wanted to go for a walk to help ease the constant stress I was feeling. I wondered if the security situation at the port had improved, so I decided to visit it once again. The roads were still filled with glass and debris, but I saw a man selling internet access. It was the first time I had opened the internet since October 7, 2023. I searched for my textbooks on Google, but the internet was too slow. I asked the man for another appointment to use the internet when it was faster so I could download my textbooks in PDF format.
Three days later, I received a call from the man telling me that the internet speed had improved. I quickly put on my clothes and shoes, and asked my father for permission to go and use the internet. My mother’s prayers accompanied me, asking that God ease my path and grant me success.
After two hours, I had successfully downloaded all my textbooks. I returned home, overwhelmed with joy, feeling like I had achieved the greatest accomplishment of my life. I proudly declared, “I did it! I managed to download the books, and now I can study.”
I had never imagined that I would be denied the simple right to own books. That even obtaining a digital copy would become a risk — a dangerous act of defiance. It is unbearable to realize that I have been stripped of everything, even the most basic of my rights: to own books and advance my education.
The Gaza seaport today. Photo: Zina Nassar
As I now had access to my books again, I dreamed of studying back amidst the rubble of my home, where the stones had witnessed my dreams and the sleepless nights spent working to achieve them.
On January 19, 2025, voices of joy began to fill the air, as my people celebrated news that the war would end. My heart was full of joy, feeling that the long-awaited moment was finally approaching. But in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was our house completely destroyed, or had it only suffered partial damage? Since the end of the first ceasefire, no one had visited the house due to the danger of the area. My brother soon reported that he found it as we had left it: half destroyed but still standing. We thanked God.
My family returned to our house and for five days we cleaned it, and the rubble surrounding it was higher than the window sills. We covered the broken walls with tarpaulin that blocked the light. I studied during the midday hours, holding my books while sitting amidst the rubble. I wanted this rubble to bear witness to my success.
And even though the port was no longer the peaceful sanctuary of my childhood, I held gratitude that it was the place where I found access to my books so I can continue my studies and become the journalist I have always dreamed of being.
