we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
We were able to get together over the past 15 months, but fear and uncertainty dominated over affection and bonding.
Deema and her family at a joyful gathering at her sister Fidaa’s house before the war. Photo: Deema Fayyad
My family used to gather every now and then. Together, we would eat a tasty lunch of Palestinian staples like maqluba, musakhan, maftoul, or grilled kebabs. My brother-in-law Asaad had magic hands for making the best kebabs ever. Each kebab was a masterpiece, with its peachy smell to whet everyone’s appetite.
Then the fragrant aromas of coffee and tea would mingle with our sweet family conversations and loud laughter at Asaad’s hilarious stories, which could cover funny incidents with friends or at work. Any passing comment of his would cause us to burst into uncontrollable laughter, as his sense of humor is one of a kind.
A little later, my brother Fady would ignite a loud, passionate debate with my brother-in-law Anas about Real Madrid and Barcelona. We would rush to close the home’s windows so the neighbors wouldn’t think we were actually fighting!
While preparing some snacks, a secret meeting would take place in the kitchen between my mother and sisters, where they would chat about cooking, relationships, and married life —conversations that would never be complete without a bit of gossip here and there.
In another corner, my father would gather with his grandchildren, hugging them while telling tales full of humor and profound wisdom. His childhood stories were often funny and he also wove in Palestinian folklore. The space would echo with the laughter of our little ones, making our gatherings even more blessed and tender.
As the day stretched on, a deep sense of gratitude filled each heart, savoring the real sense of love and warmth of family. We were happy simply because we were together. No one seemed eager to leave — there was always another story to tell or another heartfelt moment to cherish. The day, with its intimate and soulful family moments, left our hearts full, already longing for the next gathering.
Asaad while grilling kebabs. Photo: Deema Fayyad
Fifteen months have passed since we last had such a family gathering. It’s not that we haven’t seen each other during that time — we have, for most of the time, but it was not the same. Fear and turmoil took center stage, no longer family affection and bonding.
In a gloomy, dimly lit room, we gathered with my sister Fidaa’s family in our home in Khan Younis. She stayed with us for two months after being forcibly displaced from her area. As the bombardment of Khan Younis intensified, we slept in the same room and spent most of our time packed tightly against each other and united by a common fate — which could equally mean survival or death.
My brother Fady tried his best to insert some fun into this bleak space. He managed to break the heavy silence in the room and bring smiles to our pale, weary faces. However, soon after, those same smiling faces shifted into panic as an airstrike shook the house — and could be felt across the street and throughout the whole city.
At my sister Sabreen’s home in Deir Al-Balah, we gathered again — as we had fled there with Fidaa’s and Fady’s families after a day of hell. The Israeli occupation had suddenly imposed a siege and closure on the entirety of Khan Younis, and we had no choice but to flee.
A week after our displacement to Deir Al-Balah, we learned that our home in Khan Younis had been destroyed, and my brother Fady’s home, too. Two days later, my sister Fidaa learned similar news, about the damage of her home by Israeli bombing.
We spent the next few weeks crammed into Sabreen’s home. In addition to the fear of constant bombardment, we experienced famine.
The worst was the scarcity of flour which led us to divide a few daily portions of bread amongst ourselves. Sometimes we resorted to mixing a little semolina with the flour in an attempt to increase the number of bread loaves. Soon after, Fidaa and Fady moved with their families to separate shelters, while my family and I stayed on at Sabreen’s home.
Even with all of the mayhem and agony, we tried to reunite our family during Eid and Ramadan. Not everyone was able to attend, due to the daily dangers across the Gaza Strip; road transport was particularly painstaking and dangerous.
In spite of everything that had happened, everyone gathered there tried to recreate the family atmosphere from previous times. We dressed our children in ravishing dresses and suits — ones we could salvage from the rubble of our homes. For once since the start of the war, we managed to make the children believe that everything was taking its natural course. They were the happiest in these gatherings, with their outfits that brought gladness to our dismal souls and much more nostalgia for the beautiful olden days.
Deema’s nieces, Basma and Wared, and her nephew, Assem, during Eid in wartime. Photo: Deema Fayyad
Even with the earnest attempts to detach from the bleakness of war and revive the true but fading sense of family, almost all the topics discussed came back to our displacement, the pain of the present, and the uncertainty of the future. While our discussions drowned in the despair of the moment, I was slipping into the mire of dark thoughts inside my head, glancing at the faces of each member of my family.
I contemplated the glum pale hue those faces carried, the result of fatigue and crushing grief that no smile could conceal any longer. A deadly fear tightened my chest as I wondered: Will my family members — every single one of them — survive this war? Or will the war steal one or several of these faces from me? Would our old family gatherings recover after the war, with no missing people, severe injuries, or worse?
Nothing was guaranteed, nothing was clear at all. The sense of inevitability was the cruelest. You don’t have the privilege to think about the next moment — what it looks like and what it holds. There simply may not be a next moment. If you can overlook this tough truth and think about what is next, you won’t have the best scenarios ever. Everything around is so dark and miserable, as if it will last forever. Yet, you are surprised by a glimmer of light, in the midst of this misery, that gives you hope.
Just a few days following the ceasefire, we had the first family gathering of its kind since the war began, in Sabreen’s home. Hers is the only home to have survived the war. Although it was hit by some shrapnel as a result of a nearby airstrike, which caused damage to one of its walls, it had managed to survive.
The family’s first happy gathering after the ceasefire. Photo: Deema Fayyad
Together, we ate maftoul after months of deprivation, drank coffee with homemade desserts, and engaged in countless warm conversations — ones that wouldn’t be complete without Asaad’s hilarious comments and tales. For the first time in 15 months, Fady ignited the usual battle of Real Madrid versus Barcelona with Anas, but this time, we didn’t need to close the windows — since there were no longer any homes left next door.
The home’s walls echo once again with our reassuring family chaos and our children’s laughter, reinforcing the real sense of family that we had lost for what felt like ages. For the first time in almost a year and a half, everyone is present, without fear lurking in our hearts or tragic scenarios running through our minds.
For the first time, our conversations extend beyond the tragedy and displacement we went through to include other family topics. For the first time, I could see true happiness on our faces — yes, still pale and weary, yet happy like never before — as we all survived, we’re all alive!
