we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Much of Tel Al-Hawa, the neighborhood I call home, has been destroyed. But people are returning with plans to rebuild.
Mariam’s destroyed home. Photo: Yousef Mushtaha
Tel Al-Hawa, a neighborhood in the southern part of Gaza City, was not only the place where I grew up and spent many more years, but also where my eyes were opened to the world. My youngest brother and I were born in Al-Quds Hospital, a well-known medical institution nearby that was the lifeline for its citizens, providing qualified doctors and nurses.
Our neighborhood was a lively, crowded place with well-structured buildings and a strong sense of community. We lived in a warm lane surrounded by helpful and friendly neighbors. I still remember how children and adults would gather on the streets for special occasions, such as Eid or Ramadan, exchanging gifts and greetings. At the center of the neighborhood was a small chapel, where people gathered for their Eid prayers. When we were kids, my siblings and I would dress in beautiful clothes for Eid, moving from place to place, hoping to collect sweets and enjoy the festive atmosphere.
My school there was relatively close to home, taking me just seven minutes to walk there. I remember how I used to be the first to leave the classroom as soon as the bell rang, so I could get home quickly and enjoy the lunch that my mother had prepared for me. While I relied on my feet, many of my friends had to take a taxi or bus, struggling with long distances.
Every day, before leaving for school, I would say goodbye to my parents and feed the birds perched on the window sill. There was a beautiful red tree in front of our house, and I would often stop to admire it before heading out.
When I started at Islamic University, the location of Tel Al-Hawa proved to be convenient. It was easy to travel between my house and campus, since everything was nearby. Between lectures, I would call my mom to ask about lunch, and if I was not in the mood for my usual favorites, I would walk to a nearby shop that sold falafel. I would buy a sandwich loaded with sauces and a can of soda. Oh, those were the days when I felt like I owned the world.
I could easily say that Tel Al-Hawa neighborhood was an ideal location.
Tel Al-Hawa before the war. Photo: Eman Murtaja
But overnight, everything completely changed. Since the outbreak of the Israeli war on Gaza on October 7, 2023, the Israeli Occupation Forces relentlessly targeted every part of the territory without exception. The entire Strip turned into a battlefield where every moment felt like it could be the last.
We started to see the Israeli Air Forces dropping leaflets on the streets, warning people to move south under the pretext of safety. As a result of the shells and bombs that were falling on people’s heads, many of our neighbors and thousands of other families were compelled to flee the area. They had to leave behind several martyrs lying on the ground and hundreds of wounded residents. It was impossible to bring them.
We witnessed this horrifying scene, too afraid to open the windows, knowing that we could become easy targets for an Israeli sniper stationed atop one of the surrounding towers.
As a family, we chose to stay at home.
“I would rather die in my own home,” my father said.
We never expected the situation to escalate so severely, until an Israeli airstrike reduced our house to rubble on October 18, 2023. By Allah’s mercy, we survived. This might have been a sign for us to leave. As the Israeli forces got closer, staying meant certain death.
How heartbreaking it was to see our house destroyed, with all our precious belongings buried beneath the wreckage, completely out of reach. I stood before the remains of my room, desperately searching for something to take with me, but there was nothing left.
“We have to leave,” my mother urged.
So I walked away, holding onto the hope of returning soon, when my neighborhood would be full of life again.
The return was not as soon as I had hoped. We were forced to stay away from our neighborhood for over a year, as snipers lay in wait for anyone who dared to approach. Even during the first truce which occurred on November 24, 2023, the area remained unsafe. My brothers made several attempts to reach our house and retrieve some of their belongings, but tank shells and drones made it impossible.
Following the implementation of the first phase of the ceasefire agreement on January 19, 2025, thousands of families started returning to northern Gaza, even though they knew they would be coming back to nothing. Their deep-rooted connection to their land gave them the strength to endure the hardships that lay ahead.
Like many others, we went to visit Tel Al-Hawa. The massive destruction there left us in shock; its landmarks were hardly recognizable.
I walked through the desolate streets, no longer as one fleeing, but as one returning. The air carried the scent of martyrs, blending with the ruins that had erased Tel Al-Hawa’s beauty. While walking, I came across a tree where I used to take photos. Its green leaves had turned brown; yet, in my eyes, it looked as beautiful as before.
At the end of the street stood my old school, a place that had once resonated with the voices of eager students; but now, only the wind echoed through its walls. The Zionist occupation, exposing its cruelty against Palestinians, had sought to destroy everything related to education. They understood its power.
They also understood how vital mosques were to Gazans, not only as places of worship, but as spaces where people gathered to learn and speak out against oppression.
I visited the mosque where my family and I used to pray Taraweeh during Ramadan, only to find it shattered into millions of pieces. My brother, standing beside me, began crying bitterly as he recalled the moments he had shared with neighbors within its walls.
Schools and mosques were not the only targets of the Israeli forces. Hospitals, which should have been protected under international law, were also attacked. Among them was Al-Quds Hospital, located in Tel Al-Hawa. The occupation not only besieged it and terrified its patients during the war, but also destroyed critical medical equipment, which severely reduced the hospital’s services. One of its buildings was partially burnt.
The neighborhood has become an incredibly difficult place to live in, due to a severe lack of basic necessities. Residents are forced to walk long distances in search of clean drinking water. Electricity is nonexistent, forcing people to travel to specific locations just to charge their phones.
Despite these unbearable conditions, many families have erected makeshift tents atop the ruins of their homes as a symbol of their unwavering resistance and determination.
An area in Tel Al-Hawa neighborhood where citizens have set up tents on their land. Photo: Yousef Mushtaha
Although I no longer live in Tal Al-Hawa, I visit it frequently. Every time, I see hope shining in the faces of those who are there. They speak with unshakeable conviction that their mere presence on the land is the victory itself and that they are willing to face any hardship in order to stay.
I still carry the hope that one day I will return to my rebuilt home and witness Tal Al-Hawa restored to life again, with its people, its movement, and its beautiful places.
