we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
We came to Egypt fleeing death, but in exile suffering continues to chase us and we face an uncertain future.
Our house before the war started, before we sold it. Photo: Reem Sleem
My family sold the last thing that connects us to our homeland—our house and all our furniture. We have nothing left in Gaza. Not because we don’t want to return, but because life’s circumstances have forced us to leave behind everything we own so we can survive in exile. My room, my bed, my closet, my desk, my books and pens… these all went to another family whose home had been bombed.
We came to Egypt fleeing death, but suffering continues to chase us. We thought we would return after a short time, that the war wouldn’t last long, so we brought only a few clothes and some essential documents.
We had no idea what challenges we would face. We never expected to remain stranded indefinitely or to be subjected to yet another form of siege—this time by the Egyptian government that forced us to pay thousands of dollars to enter the country and by its procedures that do not grant us any rights.
My story is not unique. Today, more than 100,000 Gazans are trapped in limbo in Egypt. They cannot return home, nor can they move forward and start a new life here.
Displaced Palestinians from Gaza face precarious legal conditions in Egypt. They receive neither protection nor refugee status, leaving them stuck in a legal void.
Our lives are on hold. The simplest things are beyond us—from buying an Egyptian SIM card to arranging travel inside or outside Egypt, both of which are restricted for Palestinians.
We are not allowed to obtain official residency documents, so we are unable to enroll our children in public schools, apply for jobs, or access healthcare in government hospitals. These are just a few of the basic needs we can’t access.
We are not treated as refugees, so we don’t receive humanitarian aid or exemptions, nor are we treated as citizens with full rights. We are unwelcome guests in this land. We live under a constant threat of being deported to Gaza—a place that is no longer viable.
A banner hung by an Egyptian in Cairo, expressing his rejection of the displacement of Palestinians. It reads “No to displacement. No to the liquidation of the Palestinian cause.” Photo: Reem Sleem
We have become invisible and marginalized. If we speak up, we’re told we’re lucky. If we ask for help, we’re silenced—or worse, threatened with deportation. But where would we go?
We sold our home, not to buy another, but simply to afford food! Now we live in a rented apartment. Is there anything worse than letting go of the place that provided safety and shelter, a place that housed your family memories since childhood, just so you can survive? Just to rent a place that isn’t even your own?
Before the war, we lived in comfort. My father had a stable job with the Gaza municipality. Every week, we dined at the finest restaurants and wore beautiful clothes. We had an exquisitely furnished house, and a little cat that played with us and shared our home. We invited our relatives to celebrate birthdays and special occasions.
But now, my father has lost his livelihood. The municipality where he worked was bombed, leaving him with no source of income. He hasn’t been able to find work in Egypt—first because of his age (he is in his 50s), and second due to the restrictions placed on Palestinians. The only viable way to earn a living here is through investment and launching large-scale projects—something entirely out of reach for those of us who fled death with nothing.
Some people might think we’re living in paradise here in Egypt. And maybe it felt that way for the first few days after arriving from Gaza. For the first time in months, we had electricity, food, water, and freedom. But as time passed, the war continued, and we remained trapped and stripped of our freedoms, Egypt has begun to feel like a prison.
Most of us have run out of money and can no longer afford the high cost of living here. It feels like the only difference between us and those still in Gaza is the absence of rockets.
But that doesn’t mean we’re safe. Crime and kidnappings are happening all around us, and even if we escape those, we still face theft and scams—especially once our Palestinian identity is exposed.
For example, one of my father’s friends rented an apartment, only for the landlord to force him to pay three times the original price, just because he wasn’t an Egyptian citizen.
My friend Doaa lost her entire family in the bombings and took the risk of traveling to Egypt alone to pursue her dream of completing high school. Now, she faces a different challenge: Her landlord is threatening to evict her because she can’t pay the rent and she can’t find work.
“I applied for jobs at several companies, but they all rejected me because of my nationality,” Doaa explains, adding, “I have nowhere else to go now that my family is gone. I wish I had died with them instead of coming here.”
My mother’s friend, Maysoon, is ill and needs stomach surgery. She went to a public hospital hoping to receive treatment. When asked her for proof of residency—something the government refused to provide her with—she was denied care. Her only option is a private hospital, but after being stuck in Egypt for nearly two years without any source of income, she can’t afford it.
Sometimes, I wonder with a heavy heart what will become of my father’s job or Doaa’s dreams or Maysoon’s health?
I wonder whether my books still breathe? Did someone read them and notice my notes, or were they burned like my hopes? What about my cat? Is she still alive amid famine and destruction, or is she dying beneath the rubble?
I feel alienated in Egypt, and depressed about what I lost and what I left behind. Photo: Reem Sleem
And what if the war ends? Will we be forced to return? And where would we go when we no longer have a home?
We’re not asking for privileges or luxuries—we just want our voices to be heard, our existence to be acknowledged, and not to be forced to surrender the last of our dignity just to survive.
The war took everything from us, and in exile we face an uncertain future. How long will we remain invisible? And how long will the world keep watching in silence?
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
