we are not numbers

emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights

A hand holding a coffee cup in front of a blooming bush.

The roots of my life are steadfast

My garden, that once pulsed with life, was reduced to a desert of ash. But it will grow again.
Kite in Palestinian colors with test "WANN."
A hand holding a coffee cup in front of a blooming bush.
Drinking coffee in the garden, before the forced evacuation. Photo by the writer

They uprooted our branches and tore at our leaves, but our souls are deeply rooted and remain steadfast. Defying the odds, our roots will bear new seeds, which will sprout, grow tall, and refuse to disappear or be erased.

I have always found sanctuary in our garden. For me, this wasn’t just a plot of land; it was an oasis, Every plant, every tree, was more than just greenery; it was family, a source of joy, a living memory.

The olive trees stood as guardians on the edges of the garden, their twisted trunks bearing witness to years of care. My late father used to tell me how he had planted them long ago, their roots intertwined with our heritage. Oranges and lemons hung like golden ornaments, their scent giving a sweetness to the air. Grapevines curled around the trellis giving us cool shade on hot summer days. In the corner, stood the proud and steadfast fig tree, silently watching over our lives. Beneath their shade, my mother planted her herbs, like mint and basil, filling the air with fragrant scents.

And the roses — ah, the roses. They were my pride and joy, their colors bursting forth like a palette of emotions: crimson for love, yellow for hope, pink for peace. I would water them every morning, whispering secrets and dreams to their petals.

Our home was nestled at the heart of this paradise. It was the place where I grew up, where I learned to laugh, to love, and to dream. But that light dimmed in a single day.

A white rose against a backdrop of leaves.
The writer’s favorite white rose. Photo by the writer

The shelter of the trees wasn’t enough

It all began on an unusually quiet morning. I was sitting with my mother in the garden while my children played hide-and-seek with their father. Their voices and laughter filled the place, as if all was well in the world.

Suddenly, the ground shook with a violence I had never known before, a deafening roar that stole the breath from my lungs. I ran to take shelter under the nearest tree, naively believing its branches would shield me, but they weren’t enough.

That day, the occupation surrounded us with tanks and ordered us to evacuate our homes in Al-Zawayda. We fled with only a small bag containing fragments of our lives: my wedding photo, a few clothes, and my children’s schoolbooks.

We walked for hours on foot, until we encountered a man with a donkey cart who helped us reach my brother’s home in Rafah. The home was already crowded with three other families. We all gathered in one room, the walls trembling with every airstrike.

One morning, my husband and I ventured out to search for bread. We walked through rubble and past many destroyed homes. There were many families sleeping on the ground.

At the bakery, the line was long, and after hours of waiting, we realized there wasn’t enough bread for everyone. I returned home empty-handed, my heart heavy with disappointment, but I knew I couldn’t afford to break.

Our days blurred into each other, filled with bombings, hunger, and terror. I tried to appear strong for my children, but inside, my heart sank under the weight of fear. Then came another nightmare, a massacre. On February 12, 2024, within half an hour, airstrikes targeted scattered areas throughout Rafah, leaving over 100 martyrs.

That was when we decided to return to our home in Al-Zawayda, unaware of what awaited us.

Clutching the scorched earth

What we found was a neighborhood empty and devoid of life, surrounded by chaos and destruction. Our home was unrecognizable. It was gone, reduced to a heap of rubble. And my garden, my private world that once pulsed with life, was now a desert of ash.

The olive trees had been uprooted; their exposed roots looked like open wounds. The orange and lemon trees stood charred, their trunks blackened. The grapevines had turned to ash, and the fig tree had split in two. The herbs were gone, and the roses, our beautiful vibrant roses, were now just a memory.

I fell to my knees, clutching the scorched earth where my roses once bloomed. My vision blurred with tears at the devastation all around me. The garden was not just trees and flowers; it was our history, our hope, our homeland.

After that, we sought refuge in a tent on the outskirts of our neighborhood. The ground beneath us was harsh and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft soil of our garden. The air was thick with dust and despair, devoid of the scents that once brought so many comfort.

Many nights, I sat outside the tent, staring at the horizon where the remnants of our home lay. I tried to remember how the sun used to filter through the grapevines, how the roses glistened with the morning dew. I told myself that though the garden was gone, it still lived within me. It felt as if the garden was my heart, but some days, it felt like my chest was hollow.

A leafy green plant.
A mint tree, a favorite of the writer’s mother. Photo by the writer

I hold onto hope that one day, we will return

My mother would often comfort me, saying, “The land remembers, and so do we. We’ll plant again when this is over.” Yet, I wondered if the new trees would ever feel the same. Would they carry the memories of those we lost? Would they know the laughter and love that once filled the air? The roses were my grandmother’s last gift before her passing. The olive trees were my father’s pride, and the fig tree was my mother’s favorite. Now, they were all just memories.

Still, life in Gaza insists on surviving. My children are the heroes of my story. My eldest, Mohammed, gathered plastic and wood from the rubble to craft toys for his siblings, bringing moments of joy. My youngest, Karam, drew suns, birds, and olive trees on the ruined walls, as if rebuilding our world. One day, with a hopeful smile, he told me, “I’ll make this place beautiful again, just like it was.”

The garden may not be the same, and we may never fully regain what we lost, but we will try. Because gardens, like people, can rise from the ashes. They are more than just trees or flowers. They are symbols of resilience, of love, and of hope, that no bombing can erase.

And one day, I will plant roses with my children. I will make them bloom again, vibrant and colorful, reminding us that life, no matter how cruel, can always blossom anew.

Mentor: Jeff Abood

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