we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Israel has bulldozed the fertile area of Mirage, destroying Gaza’s ability to feed itself and sentencing the people to a slow death.
Vegetables from the market in January 2025, the last time they were readily available and affordable. Photo: Donya Abu Sitta
In southern Gaza, just outside Rafah, lies Mirage—once known as the vegetable basket of Gaza. This fertile area yielded vibrant red tomatoes, the earthy scent of freshly dug potatoes, the glossy purple of plump eggplants, and the sharp, clean smell of onions to homes across the besieged Gaza Strip.
Mirage now lies barren. Israel destroyed everything: the land, the homes, even the vegetables. Heavy bombing and fires turned the lush, green farmland into a charred desert. Then the tanks rolled in, trampling the land to ensure that it would no longer be suitable for agriculture.
Since March 2, 2025, almost no food or aid has entered Gaza, and people cannot find anything to eat. Since the Rafah crossing was closed, people had depended mainly on the vegetables produced in these lands. Now even that has been taken from them.
Abu Suleiman, a lifelong farmer in Mirage, had built his 10-dunum (2.5 acre) farm from scratch. Every morning, he would start his day before sunrise, filling his small cup of hot tea and placing it near the solar panels that powered his water pump. Then he would check the pump, locally known as al-ghaṭis, which irrigates his crops.
Abu Suleiman is not just a farmer. He is the guardian of his land, its engineer, and a friend to its rich soil. He has toiled in it for years and invested everything he has to make it a sustainable source of livelihood. His land used to supply the markets of Gaza from north to south, especially after the targeting of agricultural areas east of Khan Younis.
During harvest time, vendors came from all over the Gaza Strip to buy the produce. Abu Suleiman and his workers began filling baskets with vegetables, filling the sales trucks that then headed off to markets in different areas.
In April, the tomatoes were splitting their red clusters among the deep emerald green leaves, their smooth skins taut and gleaming in the early light; the potatoes were waiting to be harvested underground, their presence betrayed by the slight cracks in the dry soil; and the eggplants and onions were ready for picking in a few days, their surfaces cool and firm to the touch.
These days were supposed to be the most prosperous of the year for Abu Suleiman and his farmer neighbors, but they have turned into sad days filled with fear and death. In a single moment, Israel seized the most beautiful thing Abu Suleiman had—his farmland.
Israel has turned 70 percent of Gaza, including valuable agricultural land, into no-go zones. Map produced by Al Jazeera
“It was just two days before we planned to pick everything,” he told me. “The tomatoes were hanging like lanterns, their sweet, vegetal scent filling the air. There was no time to harvest. The tanks came quickly. Overnight, our thriving agricultural hub became a militarized zone,” he said sadly, his voice heavy with despair.
The occupation forces moved swiftly, their heavy machinery rumbling ominously as it crawled over the land firing shells at fleeing locals. Then, as if a swarm of locusts had invaded the harvest, the Israelis left behind only barren stalks.
Abu Suleiman and the 50 members of his extended family fled on foot, taking nothing with them; his eldest son, his wife and his 2-year-old daughter rode a motorcycle with a desperately whining engine.
One day, his middle son slipped back into the farmland without telling anyone. He couldn’t bear the thought of their thirsty trees wilting alone.
He quietly turned on the solar system and watered what was left of the crops, the precious water gurgling through the irrigation channels. While there, he ran into two neighbors—fellow farmers riding their donkey through the fields, the rhythmic clip-clop of its hooves the only sound besides the distant shelling. They had also returned briefly to check their land, their faces etched with worry.
He asked them for a ride, but they declined, afraid they would be an easy target: the Israeli army would kill anyone they found harvesting crops, and carrying things would instantly make them a higher value target. So the son walked home.
Abu Suleiman had meanwhile just learned that two of his neighbors had been killed in an Israeli airstrike. Upon seeing his son return, and not realizing where his son had been, Abu Suleiman shared the bad news. In disbelief, the son gasped that he had just been with them moments ago.
Realizing how close his son had come to death, Abu Suleiman sternly warned him not to go back again: “I don’t want to lose you.”
Mirage wasn’t just a local field. It fed neighborhoods from Gaza City in the north to Khan Younis in the south. Losing it is not only an economic blow to farmers, but a blow to Gaza’s food security as a whole. Without it, prices for vegetables have soared. Families now stretch one tomato across a single salad they all must share. Markets are emptying, their once vibrant scent now a faint memory.
“Al-ghaṭis stopped humming,” Abu Suleiman said, his voice flat and devoid of its usual warmth. “Not because there’s no sun—but because there’s no reason to water what’s no longer alive.”
The Israeli assault on Mirage came not only with bulldozers grinding through the earth and drones buzzing menacingly overhead, but with the brutal understanding that destroying Gaza’s ability to feed itself sentences it to a slow death.
Abu Suleiman’s eyes welled up as he remembered the tomatoes he grew that fed Gaza. You could feel their weight in your hand, smell their ripe odor, and taste their acidic sweetness. The tanks pulverized them into dust. Will we ever be free to make this land fertile again, or will the dust remain as a permanent reminder of what was lost?
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
