we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
My family refused to leave Gaza City until a terrifying new weapon forced us to evacuate.
Mariam’s belongings, packed in bags. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha
Since the outbreak of the genocide, displacement has become an inescapable part of my family’s life. Just a few days after October 7, 2023, Israel’s planes started dropping leaflets on Gaza’s streets, especially in the northern part of the Gaza strip. They filled my neighborhood, warning citizens to move south under the pretext of safety.
Due to the constant evacuation orders and the massive explosions that deliberately targeted those who would not leave, most of our neighbors fled south, but my family refused. For us, leaving Gaza City would have felt like betrayal, allowing Israel to occupy the city after depopulating it.
On October 18, Israeli intelligence told us to leave our house five minutes before they bombed it. We were forced to leave our neighborhood after watching our home—the walls and bricks holding unforgettable memories—turn into scattered rubble before our eyes.
After that, we moved constantly within Gaza City seeking shelter—from east to west, from north to south, at schools and at hospitals. However, heading south was still not an option we were ready to accept.
During the short-lived ceasefire in January 2025, we were able to move into a relative’s house in Tel Al-Hawa—a neighborhood located near the Netzarim area. There we lived until September.
In August 2025, the Israeli Cabinet announced the decision to occupy Gaza City and we knew we were now about to experience again the harshness of displacement. The leaflets carrying the evacuation orders to the south returned to ruin what little stability we had.
In Tel Al-Hawa, there were a series of evacuation orders targeting many residential buildings like Mushtaha, Al Roaia, and Al Sosi towers, as well as several overcrowded schools. We understood that those attacks were systematic and aimed to force as many people as possible to flee the neighborhood in order to pave the way for a potential ground operation and the occupation of what remained of the northern part of the Gaza strip.
My family said, “As we did not leave the first time, we will not leave this time.”
But this time was even more violent than the first, as Israel was determined to occupy every corner of the city, using various new and destructive weapons. What finally forced us to leave was not only the rockets, but something we had never encountered before.
Every day, we woke up to massive explosions that were unfamiliar—not missiles, not shells, but something far more destructive and powerful. Soon we learned that they were vehicles packed with huge amounts of explosives, known as “robots.” A single one of them could wipe out an entire block. They were terrifying.
Day after day the robots drew closer, until my father said, “We have to leave.”
We knew we had no choice but to flee to the Al-Mawasi area far in the south. We would be forced to live in a tent, like thousands of others who had no dignified place to live there.
I began packing everything into small bags. “What should I take?” I asked myself. “How can all these pieces, all these memories fit into such small bags?” Every item carried a story—a grief, a memory, a moment. My belongings were not just things; they were part of me. I knew most of them could never be replaced, but I also knew I would not be able to take them all.
With the destruction of our home in October 2023, we had lost everything and had started again from nothing. We bought new clothes for summer and winter, collected new blankets, dishes, and books. It took months of effort and sacrifice. And now, it was all happening again. Only this time, it was worse. Gaza’s markets were empty. Borders were closed. Nothing was allowed in, even the simplest things.
I can say that those moments—packing my items—were among the most painful of my life. I felt like I was packing pieces of my soul into those bags, unsure if I would ever return, or if any of it would matter tomorrow.
September 17, 2025, was the hardest day—we said good-bye, not only to our neighborhood, but also to my two eldest siblings, who refused to leave with us. My sister, Noor, is a doctor working at Al-Shifa Hospital. She said she could not abandon her patients under any circumstances. My brother, Shareef, was completely against leaving, saying, “If all of us surrender and leave, then who will remain to stop Israel from achieving its plan to occupy Gaza City?”
Words are easy but when it’s your soul at stake, when death is a breath away, you run.
I looked into my siblings’ eyes and saw how they were soaked in grief and regret. Leaving your family is hard, but leaving your home and identity is even harder. I tried to stay strong during that painful farewell, but my soul was devastated. I knew it might be the last time I saw them. We all left with tears filling our eyes. It was not a normal goodbye, but one marked with heartbreak and deep uncertainty. Will we ever reunite?
My mother was broken. “I will leave two pieces of my heart,” she said, trying to stay strong for her two other children—me and my youngest brother, Yousef.
When I got into the truck that would carry us to Al-Mawasi, my heart broke into pieces. I didn’t want to leave. I kept thinking: Will we return, like those who managed to come back the first time? Or will this be a permanent departure—one where we never see Gaza City again?
As the truck moved along Al-Rashid Street, it got stuck. I was shocked by what I saw—the line of vehicles stretched so far that its beginning was unclear. In the Al-Nabulsi area, we waited for six hours. When we reached Tabet Al-Nuwairi, we stayed another four.
Twelve hours passed—time that could have taken us across continents by airplane—yet here in Gaza, it was wasted on a single road, in vehicles overwhelmed with families fleeing to save their lives.
Many trucks carrying people and their belongings were stuck in traffic when trying to leave Tel Al-Hawa. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha
I saw people packing their entire lives into vehicles—furniture, clothes, food, and everything they could carry. “We may not return,” they said. I saw children crying bitterly, desperate for just a sip of water. I saw elderly men and women, whose age seemed like barrier between them and escape, struggling to walk any further.
Those who don’t live in Gaza might have said, “Why don’t you just leave and save your lives?” It seems easy, yet no one else can truly feel the experience you are going through.
Gazans who left for the south the first time and then returned swore they would never leave again. They did not want to repeat the harsh experience they went through—living in tents without privacy, without dignity, and without even the most basic necessities of life. Many said they would rather die in their homes than die far from their loved ones.
In addition, many people simply could not afford the journey of displacement. To travel to the south via a tuk-tuk or a truck, people paid around $3,000—sometimes even more. Others had nowhere to go in the south, not even a small patch of land to take shelter on. And even if they did, many could not afford to buy a tent, which cost around $1,000—if you were lucky enough to find one.
Mariam’s camp in Al-Mawasi. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha
After Trump’s proposal for a permanent ceasefire, those who once fled to the south are now allowed to return to Gaza City. But return to what? To the ruins of their homes? To the streets that no longer exist? To neighborhoods where basic necessities have vanished?
While some returned and found their homes standing, many came back only to find nothing but dust and memories buried beneath the rubble. For us, the south was never home; only a place to survive. Yet after the huge destruction that struck Gaza City, the south no longer feels temporary. It feels like the only place left.
More than a month has passed, and my parents, brother and I, are still living in a tent in the Al-Mawasi area. It is our first experience of displacement in the south, and the hardest. We are struggling to adapt. This is not our place. Our life is in Gaza City, where we were born and raised, where we know every street, every corner. It is our home—the home we resisted leaving for almost two years of war until Israel made it impossible to stay.
