we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Water is scarce, gas impossibly expensive, and every corner of our house full of rubble, but a neighbor’s kindness fueled a small spark of hope.
The simple ritual of lighting a fire for cooking has stayed with us throughout this whole devastation. Photo: Rula Hamdouna
On Jan. 27, 2025, displaced people in Gaza were allowed to return to their homes in the north. I was finally able to see the home I had always dreamed of coming back to. This was a dream that once seemed out of reach, like a star shining in a distant sky, impossible to touch. Yet after a year and a half of devastation, exile, and pain, at last I stood in my city, in my neighborhood, on the street of my home.
I thought that the return home would mark the end of my nightmare, that it would be the final closing of the darkest chapter in my life. But I soon discovered the painful truth: The nightmare hadn’t ended, it had only just begun.
My streets and their buildings were no longer recognizable. The buildings were silent skeletons, the last witnesses to tales of our death and destruction. Neighborhoods that once pulsed with life were now ruins haunted by the ghosts of the recent past. I felt as if I was in a different city, one pulled from the depths of an ancient time. One stripped of every familiar feature that we once knew and loved.
Our return brought a new kind of struggle. It was not a struggle of exile this time, but a totally different kind of alienation. It brought an estrangement from the very same place we knew as “home.”
There were no longer familiar homes to shelter us; there was no clean drinking water and no proper sanitation worthy of human dignity. The internet was scarce. We could barely find even a small reception spot that could offer us a connection to the outside world.
We had been cut off from everything, even from each other. Checking on our loved ones was no longer a quick phone call or a short text message. The only way to see someone was to visit in person, and this itself was a struggle. There was no transport because fuel prices had soared far beyond our reach. Walking long distances became a daily necessity, not just to meet basic needs but even to see the faces of our loved ones and make sure they were okay.
Fire has become our eternal companion. It is our one connection to our previous lives. Every flame carries with it the memory of pain and loss, but it also holds the glow of hope in our hearts. The simple ritual of lighting a fire for cooking has stayed with us throughout this whole devastation.
I am here now, standing inside my house, or at least what’s left of it. Its walls have been stripped of their original decorations, turning them into silent witnesses to the cruelty of war. Every corner is filled with shrapnel and rubble.
Every corner of our house is filled with shrapnel and rubble. Photo: Rula Hamdouna
Yet, despite the devastation, I found my old room easily. I had memorized it inch by inch. I stood there, amid memories scattered like dust, and made a vow to myself: I will rebuild it, more beautiful than it ever was.
We started bringing in workers to collect the debris and clean the place as much as possible. It wasn’t like I had imagined, nor as I had hoped. There was no water to wash the floors or remove the dust, which clung to every corner. We had to settle for simply sweeping the ground. Yet with every stroke of the broom, I felt as if I was sweeping away a layer of pain from my heart, even before the dust was cleared from the floor.
Amid this chaos, my brother joked, covering his face with his hand. “I swear, I just want to shower right now and get all this dust off me. I don’t even know how I’m going to clean myself !”
I smiled despite the heavy weight on my chest and replied with light sarcasm. “First we find some water to use the bathroom!”
People gather around the trucks, desperate to fill water bottles. Photo: Rula Hamdouna
That’s when I decided to search for water. A simple resource which had now become a rare treasure.
I went to our neighbor, who was cleaning her own house with her husband, amid the same heartbreaking scene. I asked if she knew of a place where I could find some water. She looked at me with a bittersweet smile and said, “Getting water these days is really tough. But if you bring me a container I will fill it for you.”
I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe it was the kind of gratitude a thirsty person feels when they find a drop of water in a barren desert.
I went back upstairs to my brother, carrying a small piece of good news, which meant the absolute world to us. I walked into the room and said excitedly, “Saeed, I found you some water to shower!”
He looked at me in disbelief, as if I’d told him I’d just found buried treasure. He couldn’t imagine that just a few liters of water could be something worth celebrating, but in our new world, this was the treasure. Water had become more precious than gold.
Despite all this pain, despite the bitterness of loss which lingers in every corner of my city, my neighbor’s gesture was enough to light a small spark of hope in my heart.
What my neighbor gave me was more than just a few liters of water. It was a silent message saying that the world still holds some goodness. That even amid all this destruction and ruin, the essence of kindness remains rooted in people’s hearts. This is clearly evident in the spontaneous generosity of so many Palestinian people.
At that moment of sharing in our common need, I was certain that our people, despite all the harsh conditions they endure, still carry within them the seeds of goodness and giving.
