we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
A few simple possessions retrieved from the rubble soothe the sadness of loss.
The view from a window of Mariam’s home in Tel Al-Hawa, before the Israeli military destroyed the neighborhood. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha
Our house in Tel Al-Hawa was destroyed on October 18, 2023, just 11 days after the beginning of the assault on Gaza by Israel. When we left in panic, we took nothing with us, not even money or personal documents like IDs, birth certificates, or educational records.
As a child, I bought a lot of toys and decorative items for my room, and because I was careful with them, they remained intact for years. I think I inherited this characteristic from my father, who used to do the same in his youth. My belongings meant a lot to me, and every stage of my life was marked by the different items displayed on my desk.
During my early school years, I was diligent in my studies and received many certificates and awards. I kept them all. In my teenage years, reading became an important part of my life and I acquired books and novels, especially those written by Agatha Christie, until my bookcase was full. Reading every day with a cup of tea or another drink was my favorite pastime.
After I graduated from secondary school, the number of items in my room increased. Preparing for university meant getting a lot of books and learning materials. Gradually, my room transformed into what felt like a small store, filled with everything I needed. It became my peaceful space, my sanctuary.
When the war broke out on October 7, we did what we had always done during every previous escalation—packed our belongings into bags in case we had to flee. Hesitantly, I headed to my room, torn between what to take and what to leave behind. It was painful trying to choose between the things I love and wishing I could carry them all. What should I take: my clothes, my laptop, my favorite novels, or my university books?
“Take only what’s important,” my mother said.
October 18 was a terrifying night in Tel Al-Hawa neighborhood. The situation escalated rapidly, and the sound of explosions kept coming closer and closer. Our lane was deserted, as many of our neighbors had already evacuated to the south, following Israel’s orders.
Illumination flares lit up the sky, casting a glow over our area. We knew that we were about to experience an unforgettable night. We hurried to gather our bags and place them by the door, ready to flee at any moment.
Suddenly, a powerful airstrike hit our neighbor’s house. The windows shattered and things started falling everywhere. Dust filled the air, making it hard to breathe. We felt that our turn was near, and we decided to leave as quickly as we could.
Blinded by dust and fear, we couldn’t see anything, and in panic we fled without a single one of the bags we had so carefully prepared, convinced that we would return in just a matter of hours. We headed to Al-Quds Hospital, seeking shelter for a few hours. When we left the hospital, we found our home completely destroyed and our belongings buried under the wreckage, out of reach.
Since then, more than a year and a half, we have been displaced at my grandparents’ house in the Al-Shuja’iya neighborhood.
During the first truce, which took place in November 2023, Israel violated the agreement and killed many people within a week. Our neighborhood was invaded, and anyone who approached was targeted by Israeli snipers positioned on every standing tower nearby. I had a deep desire to see my home, even in ruins, but we could not until the short-lived ceasefire was announced in January 2025.
My brothers rushed to the area to find it unrecognizable. Our home was reduced to scattered walls. With no proper equipment, they could not recover anything from under the rubble. Yet, they searched, hoping to find something that held the scent of home. Sadly, they found nothing.
What was left of the house that had been home. Photo: Yousef Mushtaha
A few days ago, my brothers went to the site of our home again and dug through the rubble with nothing but their bare hands and an irrepressible sense of hope. This time they came back with two big bags full of our things and huge smiles on their faces. We all eagerly began searching in them for our own things.
I discovered the pink desk lamp that had been my companion through many a study session when the electricity was still on. Its attractive color and strong light made me keep it for a long time—and there it was without a single scratch.
To my great pleasure, I found the pair of silver earrings I had bought to wear at my cousin’s wedding. The war had come and ruined my chance of wearing such beautiful ornaments.
There were also a few of my educational certificates, and the gold watch I had given to my brother Yousef on his birthday. Surprisingly, although it was not covered, it was still intact. My brother was happy to have it again.
“Oh, my favorite cup!” I squealed with joy. It was that small black mug I used to fill with hot tea whenever I wanted to read a novel.
A big prize of the retrieval operation was the photo album that holds our family pictures. Amazingly, it was not even torn, and we spent two hours reminiscing over the photographs. It allowed us to remember the beautiful, simple moments—moments the war has prevented us from living as one should be able to do.
Some of the rescued items. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha
We were all so happy, the joy of seeing some of our belongings again was beyond words. When we left suddenly on October 18, we lost everything—even crucial personal documents like our IDs and birth certificates, things we’ve needed to go on living in this time of destruction and devastation.
While others might consider these particular items unimportant, they carry deep meaning for each of us. Although we have not recovered any of the most important things, our hearts are overjoyed at having any fragment of the past that carries the scent of home.
Some objects, though seemingly insignificant, are like close friends, holding stories, feelings, and moments we never want to forget. To be without them is to feel alone. The war may have taken away the things we loved, but it cannot erase the memories we built with them.
I will treasure the things my brothers managed to recover, keeping them safe as a way to feel that I am still in my home. These items, though simple, mean a lot to me. They are memories of every beautiful moment I spent in my room and in my home. As we say, “Walls may fall, but memories remain.”
