we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
In the bleak diaspora, melancholy swirls around my scattered self, making me wonder: Were we born to live or to die?
During my merciless journey of displacement, I have found myself frequently in moments of closeness with uncertainty and ambiguity, forced to navigate a land where dreams are often long dead and to breathe air heavy with the curse of an unknown fate.
Despite the uncertainty, I try to cling to life by the memories of the world I once knew and the fragments of a dream I still believe in.
A little café with its unique olive-green wall was our favorite hangout spot; now I can see neither the wall nor the friends who once made the café special. Photo: Ahlam Howiti
From the earliest whispers of my childhood, I have been told endless tragic stories about the 1948 Nakba and the 1967 Naksa: how our grandparents were forced under violence to leave their ancestral homeland and to seek refuge in the bleak diaspora.
But I never thought I would have my own such story.
During my journey of displacement, I sought refuge in places that felt hostile to my presence. From a small apartment, to a public hospital, to a room, and then to a store, I have sought safe refuge. Each refuge turned to be as unforgiving as the previous. Yet people tell me that I am lucky I am not in a tent!
“Where are we going to evacuate?” I once asked my dad.
“To the claimed safe zone,” he replied, worry etched on his face.
“Is our home in the safe zone?” my little sister Jowan interjected, with innocent voice.
My dad and I both hesitated, unsure what to say.
The truth was horrendous for a child’s heart.
What set us apart from our home? Only two hours, failed attempts to ceasefire, betrayal of rulers, and the all-pervasive threat of death at the hands of the world’s most “moral” army.
How can I walk into my own home, visit my grandparents’ graves, or eat the fruits of my ancestors’ toil, without mortal consequences?
In daylight hours, I usually put my earphones on and listen to symphonies of Mozart or Tchaikovsky, creating my own harmonies away from chaos. I take my journal with its indigo cover and write down my innermost thoughts and desires, letting them flow freely on the pale, sandy-yellow papers. I write passionately about a sky without remote-monitoring eyes, a cloudless future, and a warm sunrise over a free, liberated homeland.
One afternoon, under the glaring sunlight, I took my journal and started to write down what I would like to do in the future. While my thoughts were dancing on the melodies, an obtrusive question interrupted: What if I was futureless?
My mind was muddled for a moment and the place around me seemed dark and empty. I couldn’t answer the question.
My life has no guarantees.
Notwithstanding the suffocating embrace of these hazy days, as Gazans we profoundly yearn to live — not merely to survive. We keep seeking for any glimpse of the life we once had.
You might see some Gazans trying to turn their small tents into something like home, yet the blazing sun betrays them; it burns their innocent skin without mercy.
Those families who were born under a lucky star could return back home, in the southern part of the Gaza Strip. Some found their home completely destroyed and built a tent beside it. Or they found it in a severely damaged state and have tried to repair it as much as possible. For some of them, their home was just in disarray, so they decided to stay in it at all costs.
For us, being in our home even if it might cost our lives is better than being dispersed in the bleak diaspora. We can’t feel wholly alive anywhere but home.
My sister Jowan drawing two girls going to school together, before the Rafah invasion. Photo: Ahlam Howiti
During the day I try to fight the melancholic demons. Sometimes I draw places that I used to love with vibrant colors, as they appear in my memories, full of love and life.
One time, little Jowan decided to join me in drawing. We took a colored pencils box and a journal and started drawing
“What are you drawing Jowan?” I asked her.
“A girl with her friends going to school,” she replied, with eyes filled with joy and hidden heartbreak.
“One day you’ll go to school and meet your friends again; one day the sun will rise over our gloomy world again,” I told her, trying to cheer her up, despite the despair.
One afternoon, as the sun hid behind the clouds and the sky started to drizzle, I was roaming the grey streets to distract my scattered self. I came across a small bakery that sells fresh bread. The air was full of the smell of the fresh bread and hunger.
I didn’t pay attention to the endless line of people fighting to buy some bread to feed their starving souls, but my eyes observed a small hanging electric lamp. I stood among the crowd gazing at the glowing light for a while. As a person who hadn’t seen electricity in months, the small lamp seemed more extraordinary than a long line of hunger’s ghosts.
If I had a chance to define the people of Gaza in two words, I would say they are natural, simple people. A child here would be delighted with a small piece of home-baked bread made by the mother’s love.
As we have been deprived of normalcy, a delicious meal, a cozy bed, or a hot shower has become a dream for us. The things that we used to do daily, has become something luxurious.
One moonless night, as the sky was alone with the dim lights of the warplanes that hovering overhead like a remorseless serial killer, my family and I sat together, sipping mint tea and talking about our dreams and wishes.
Jowan on the beach. Photo: Ahlam Howiti
Little Jowan: “I want to play with my friends again.” (She spoke in a whisper.)
Dad: “If we have the chance to wish again, all I want is to return back home.” (His voice was heavy with doubt.)
Mum: “We will return back home, if we believe in this.” (She interrupted my dad, with eyes filled with hope and prayers.)
While they were talking, I was lost in a daydream, remembering every distant memory I had from before. Heavenly memories, yet tormenting, a reminder of every loss. All I wished was for normalcy again.
As a Palestinian, during your lifetime you live, and you die repeatedly.
You live for a fragile hope, a childish fondness, a passion for a dream, and for an unyielding belief.
However, death beckons from an uncertain fate, a distant memory, a great loss, a forgotten desire, a bleak diaspora.
I see it all. I feel it all. And my heart fills with grief.
Maybe, to be born Palestinian,
is to live and to die multiple times in one lifetime.
