we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Murals painted by artists on the ruins in Gaza memorialize martyrs, document events, protest the genocide, and proclaim the people’s love of life.
Hassan Ayyad, the martyred 14-year-old with the beautiful voice and wide grin, in a mural by Bilal Abu Nahl. Photo: Ahmed Abu Shawish
In Gaza, where much of the world sees only rubble and ruin, some walls still speak. Painters have picked up their brushes and, through murals painted on bombed-out buildings, crumbling school walls, and U.N. shelters, they are telling stories and hoping someone, somewhere, might listen.
Murals have long been a form of political expression, but today they have re-emerged as one of the clearest means to communicate about the genocide and destruction.
Among the artists behind the murals in Al-Nuseirat and Deir Al-Balah is Bilal Abu Nahl, a deaf Palestinian artist.
Bilal, 29, discovered his artistic talent at a young age. Before the genocide, he earned a modest income by painting portraits for special occasions and birthdays.
Mohammed Tamraz, who speaks on Bilal’s behalf due to his friend’s hearing impairment and his inability to speak, says: “The genocide affects everyone, but for Bilal it has changed every aspect of his life personally and artistically. Living in a genocide zone imposes constant psychological pressure. Especially after losing most of his family, Bilal now lives largely alone, even separated from his only remaining brother. Still, his ambitions remain alive.”
Tamraz adds, “Bilal is like any young person in the world. He has dreams and talent, but he lives in completely different circumstances.”
Bilal’s hearing disability has made the genocide even harsher. He can’t hear approaching airstrikes, increasing the danger in moments where seconds matter. His friends have to warn him with frantic gestures when explosions draw near.
Tamraz recalls, “Many times, shelling happened close to us. We would rush away, while he couldn’t understand what was happening. We had to signal to him, and that caused him visible distress and makes him feel vulnerable.”
Despite this, Bilal continues to paint.
A man embraces a cactus in a mural in Al-Saraya. Photo: Ahmed Abu Shawish
Bilal began painting murals long before the genocide, but the themes of his work have changed drastically. As commercial requests disappeared while people struggled to meet basic needs, he turned his brush toward memorializing martyrs.
He had never painted faces of victims before. But today, their features fill the walls. “He uses the only weapon he has — art. These murals are not commercial. They are for expression and remembrance,” Tamraz says.
The people he chooses are rarely random. Many are those whose stories deeply moved the community. One mural, in particular, remains closest to his heart.
After Israel killed Hassan Ayyad, a 14-year-old boy who was known for his beautiful singing voice, Bilal decided to paint him in Deir Al-Balah. The mural has since become a silent space for reflection.
Mostly, Bilal’s choice of mural locations is governed less by artistic desire and more by survival. “He tries to work in relatively populated areas, but there is truly no safe place. Bombing can happen anywhere,” Tamraz explains.
Locating materials is an obstacle. Art supplies are scarce and expensive, forcing him and his friends to search for whatever remains in libraries and shops.
Despite these limitations, the community’s response has been striking. Families of victims often welcome these murals, grateful to see their loved ones immortalized on the walls. “When a mural of a martyr appears in a neighborhood, people feel that their memory is still alive. They remember them every time they pass by,” Tamraz says.
More than anything, Bilal wants to keep going and for his art to reach beyond Gaza. “Through art, we send our voice to the world. We express what we live through and preserve the memory of those who are gone,” Tamraz explains.
Protesting the destructiveness of war. Photo: Ahmed Abu Shawish
When I visited Gaza City for the first time after the truce in January 2025, the streets were filled with murals and slogans calling for justice.
In the Rimal neighborhood, beneath a bombed building, one mural caught my attention: a woman submerged in a sea of blood, clutching her young child as airstrikes rise behind her. Beneath the image was a clear plea: “STOP THE WAR.”
As days passed, artists continued searching for opportunities to leave their mark on the walls. I photographed these paintings whenever I encountered them, imagining the time and skill required to create works stretching along Salah Al-Din Street, the main artery running through Gaza City, from Beit Hanoun in the north to Rafah in the south.
Near Al-Maghazi, I witnessed a scene that briefly brought back memories of life before the genocide, while simultaneously evoking current harsh realities. The electricity company had restored lighting to the street and painters were busy creating new murals.
I was with my friend Ahmed Abu Shawish when one particular mural stopped me. I asked him to take a photo of it. In a painful irony, the painted woman is embracing her city’s buildings beneath a destroyed structure. The image captures the Palestinian relationship with what they built and what is taken from them.
As I walked through the streets, I realized these murals were layered messages, ranging from documentation to protest, from mourning to clinging on to life.
Gaza’s people do not want a city reshaped by external visions, nor a “new Gaza” filled with skyscrapers. They want a city that reflects them — faces of their loved ones hanging on the walls and memories that cannot be demolished.
Like a mural in Al-Saraya of a man embracing a cactus despite its thorns. Gazans, like that man’s hand, embrace their city as it is with its pain, and they love it because it is like the cactus that blooms despite its thorns.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs in a slightly revised format.
