we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
My brother was killed during the holiday more than 10 years ago. It still leaves a gap in my life and in the life of his son.
My brother always found peace in the waves and the breeze. Photo: Fuad Abu Dahrouj
Amid the 2014 war in Gaza, I was eagerly waiting for Eid, and life surprised me. In an instant, the birdsong disappeared, replaced by the sound of explosions, people screaming, and children crying. That day stole my childhood and dreams, leaving me facing the cruelest truth: There can be no Eid in the midst of loss.
I remember that night before he was killed, when I sat with him, excitedly talking about Eid, telling him what I planned to wear. My brother looked at me with deep sadness and disappointment in his eyes and said, “What Eid are you talking about? There is no Eid in war.”
He said it as if he knew he was about to leave. I did not care for his words. I did not share the despair he felt.
Instead, I smiled and said, “Of course there is Eid, as long as my family is safe.”
Our conversation ended, and we went our separate ways, carrying our own emotions.
My world was shattered by a missile. I was deceived by the calmness of that morning, the morning before Eid. It was a quiet morning; it was a sky without airplanes. It was a time of truce, a temporary ceasefire. The only sound filling the air was the chirping of birds. It was the day I lost my brother: Baha’ Eldeen Abu Esaid, July 27, 2014.
I woke up with all hope and love, but that peace didn’t last. In an instant, the silence was broken; bombs exploded, screams filled the air, and the sound of crying echoed everywhere.
Two missiles ruined my life, my childhood, and my dreams. The first missile took the lives of several men. The second came right after, killing my beloved brother. He died because he ran to save them. His kindness cost him his life.
That was my brother, the one who would sacrifice himself for strangers. Imagine how he was with those he loved? He left us, taking a piece of our hearts with him. The pain and longing he left behind will never heal.
My brother had a baby boy, just a tiny infant, not even two months old, when his father was killed. My nephew was never given the chance to know the man who gave his life for others. That child will grow up carrying his father’s name, but will never know his embrace, never hear his voice. As for me, every time I look into his eyes, I feel like a piece of my brother is still alive in this world.
The war didn’t allow time for a farewell to my brother. I couldn’t grasp the idea of him leaving. My little heart couldn’t bear to see him die. I was just a child, excited to celebrate Eid with my family. But there was no Eid anymore.
But that night, Eid did happen, in spite of our terrible loss. It haunts me every year. When the sound of the Takbirat was raised, my heart broke hundreds of times, and I covered my ears, trying to block out the sounds, trying to escape the feeling of Eid happening without him.
I hoped that night would be over. I cried so much because it’s the only thing I could do. I watched the other children wearing their beautiful new clothes while I held onto my brother’s shirt, breathing in his scent, trying to keep him close. I looked at them with sorrow and wondered what Eid would have been like if my brother were still here.
I used to convince myself that he would come. I waited for him, looking at the door, waiting for my brother to come with toys and sweets. But he didn’t come. And as I grew older, I finally understood he would never come back. But he will always live in my heart, and his memory will stay with me forever.
Another Eid in war time—but I’m no longer a child. I’m now a young woman, 22 years old, yet the same feelings still trap me, and I have realized that the war does not just steal the joy of children, but also the joy of adults. The nightmare never ends: the sound of bombings, the sound of ambulances, the cries of children.
On the morning of the last Eid, I sat down searching for a glimpse of joy, a shred of hope, but I found nothing but tears racing down my cheeks and a sense of despair tightening around me like a rope. I looked at the children around me, and it felt as if each one of them carried pain far greater than their years.
Among the children, there was one boy who always drew my attention—Alaa Abu Esaid, my brother’s son, the son of the martyr who was killed in the war. He was only two months old when his father passed away. He will never remember his father’s face, never heard his voice, never felt his love. This child grew up in a home without a father, bearing the weight of a war that snatched his father away before he could even speak his first words.
Just like his father, my nephew is drawn to the sea. Photo: Majd Abu-Esaid
Today, he is 10 years old, and it’s as if life itself wants to remind him, every Eid, what happened in that war—the war that stole his father. It’s as if the world puts him face-to-face with the sounds of bombs, the scenes of destruction, and the rivers of blood, to tell him: “This is the war that took your father away, and these are the Eids that will always feel incomplete, because your father is no longer here.”
On the last Eid, he sat beside me, trying to smile, but he could not. His silence spoke louder than words, and there was a pain in his eyes that no child should ever carry—the pain of a small boy forced to fight battles he never chose. Every Eid that passes, he feels it—the absence, the missing piece, the space left by the father who will never come back.
I feel the weight of his father’s absence in so many moments. Every time Alaa and I went to the amusement park, I would catch him watching the other kids playing with their fathers, his eyes heavy with a sadness no child should know. I tried my best to shield him from that loneliness—running, playing, laughing with him. But there were moments I simply could not fill the gap—like the time he wanted to play soccer in the boys’ field, and I just stood there, unable to join, feeling that some games are meant for fathers.
Once, in the middle of a game, he stopped and asked for a photo of his father—as if he could feel a hollow space inside him that needed filling with a face, a memory, a presence. His mother helps him hold on to that connection—showing him photos, sharing stories, keeping the memory of his father alive. And we all do the same, telling him about the man his father was—his kindness, his love, his laughter.
We want him to grow up knowing his father, even if he never got the chance to truly have him—because a father’s love cannot be erased by absence, and memories can bridge even the deepest loss.
