we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The largest neighborhood in Gaza City, once vibrant and beautiful, is now a ghost town.
This photo, shot from what used to be my home, now bulldozed and flattened, shows the demolition of Al-Shuja’iyya in progress. Photo: Taken and posted on Tiktok by Israeli soldiers on May 5, 2025
It was 12:35 p.m. I was alone in our makeshift shelter—nothing more than flimsy tarps and thin metal sheets overhead, barely enough to keep the rain and dust out. Two weeks prior, the Israeli army had issued evacuation orders for our neighborhood of Gaza City, Al-Shuja’iyya; the rest of my family had already fled in search of “safety.” I had remained, sometimes all alone and sometimes sharing the shelter with my youngest brother Zakarya.
On this day, Thursday, April 10, 2025, the third invasion of Al-Shuja’iyya began near Al-Muntar Hill, in the southeast part of the neighborhood. Within hours, Al-Shuja’iyya became a ghost town. During the previous first and second invasions, my home had been targeted four different times, and was nearly totally erased.
The air was thick with terror. Israeli drones buzzed overhead like angry wasps. Tank shells and artillery rounds came crashing from everywhere. F-35s screamed above, raining down destruction and chemicals. I told myself, “Stay calm, Yusuf, maybe they’ll leave you alone.” That humble hope kept me rooted in place.
Around 1:30 p.m., I decided to walk to my cousin Mahmoud’s partially damaged house. When I arrived, I found Mahmoud, his brother, and their mother baking on a clay oven. The smell of fresh manakeesh filled the air, but I was too shy to ask for some. In truth, I was starving. I had only eaten snacks for the past two days.
When I went to the bathroom to do my wudu, ablution before praying, suddenly, I heard a deafening roar above our tents—so loud I thought an Apache helicopter was landing on us. Frozen in fear, I stayed in the bathroom, peeking through the wooden slats of the door, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Then I saw it: a quadcopter drone lurking just 15 meters away from the bathroom, with a smaller surveillance drone circling above.
It came closer—just five meters above the rubble of what was once my home. My heart pounded in my chest. I began whispering the Shahada, the final words a Muslim says before death. “This is it,” I thought, “I’m watching the end of my life unfold, right before my eyes.”
The drone dropped two bombs, which shook the ground beneath me. I was certain I was dead. But somehow, by the mercy of God, I survived. Thinking the drone might need time to reload, I stayed perfectly still, waiting. Finally, it pulled back, returning to a nearby military point. I waited until the smaller drone also left before I dared to move.
I rushed out of the bathroom, grabbed my clothes and shoes, and ran. It seemed like I was holding my heart in my hands. I called out to Mahmoud, warning him to flee. “Okay, I’m coming,” he replied, scrambling to grab a few belongings. We all managed to escape, just in time.
Moments later, the Israeli occupation forces began turning Al-Shuja’iyya into a ghost town. Heron and Hermes drones spewed over 15 missiles, while relentless artillery fire rang out.
I found temporary shelter at a friend’s house, about a kilometer away from my own. Just before midnight, we were all jolted awake by what felt like the earth collapsing. The bombardment had returned, fiercer than ever. Fighter jets smeared the sky with belts of fire.
As I stood outside my friend’s house, my eyes caught sight of the fire belts being launched toward the already partially damaged homes of my relatives, just a stone’s throw from from the shelter my brother and I had concocted next to our destroyed home.
The sight shattered me—my body collapsed and my heart froze in shock, as the terrifying bombardments unfolded before me. The Israeli Occupation Forces turned my only refuge, my tiny slice of peace, into rubble. Even those flimsy tarps and fragile metal sheets, barely shielding us from the cold and dust, were not spared.
No ordinary human could unleash such horror, the kind of cruelty that only escapes when the gates of hell are left open. We passed the night but things were far from over.
On Sunday morning, I woke early and headed to my relative’s supermarket, a short walk from my friend’s house. There, we shared anxious conversations, huddled in this corner of our neighborhood, looking out to see which of my relatives’ homes had been reduced to rubble.
Around 2:30 p.m., without warning, an Apache helicopter appeared overhead, as we stood in the street outside the supermarket. We were paralyzed. The helicopter unleashed its destructive force, firing a shell that struck a nearby house and engulfed it in flames. The sound of the helicopter grew closer; when we heard a shell launch, panic took over. We ran, scrambling to find any safe corner, seeking refuge in whatever shelter we could find.
Just moments later, the Apache helicopter began firing down the street, mere meters from where we were hiding, its bullets tearing through the houses and the streets. It was absolute horror. The chaos around us felt like a scene straight from the Day of Judgment, an ordeal so harrowing, so nightmarish, that no words could ever truly capture the terror we felt.
I thought back to the days when we were surrounded by gardens, when we could breathe clean air and enjoy the sound of songbirds. We lived in a symphony of rich perfume from flowering trees.
Yet here I am now, living in what feels like the Stone Age, as my city lies in ruins. My once vibrant and beautiful neighborhood is now a deadly, uninhabitable place resembling a graveyard.
During the January “ceasefire,” my two brothers, Mohammed and Zakarya, along with our cousins and other relatives, had poured every ounce of effort into clearing the mountains of rubble that had once been our home. We had dug through the debris scattered across our garden and, despite the devastation, we had managed to set up some tents. We had barely got by, but that fragile, makeshift camp had become our sanctuary, our nirvana.
It was humble, but our love and attachment to that plot of land ran deep. It was the place where my childhood memories were woven together, where love was nurtured, care and laughter flowed, where a sense of home still lingered amidst the ruins. It had become the place I could breathe in, despite being trapped in this open-air prison.
I’m dying for the day this reality fades. We’re praying to God, ceaselessly, for an immediate stop to this never-ending genocide.
Dear past, dear departed loved ones—friends, neighbors, relatives—please, rest in peace. My memories of you are engraved in my heart. With tears in my eyes, I say to you I miss everything about you, like crazy, dear late past, you darling. I will carry you with every step, carving deep footprints as I shoulder the immense weight of your memory.
Farewell, my beloved neighborhood.
