we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
One woman’s passion has become a source of healing for many.
Najwa Abdel Aal leads a crochet workshop for displaced women. Photo: Jumana Taiseer Mughari
In the courtyard of Ahmad al-Kurd School in the al-Bassa area west of Deir Al-Balah, Najwa Abdel Aal leads crochet workshops for displaced women. Crochet, as Najwa describes it, is “the art of weaving using one hook and a thread.”
Najwa, a 36-year-old English graduate and mother of three, first launched these crochet workshops in November 2024, running them through January 2025. Another series followed from February to mid-April of 2025, and she is now preparing a third series of workshops.
These are no ordinary craft sessions. The women who attend are survivors of the ongoing Israeli assault.
“They come from the tents,” Najwa explains. “They are women and girls who have lost their homes, or lost family members, or are now responsible for relatives who have lost limbs.”
For many, Najwa’s small classroom has become a refuge from the grind of tent life—from hauling water in jugs and struggling to stoke fires for cooking.
“Embroidery is an outlet for them,” Najwa says. “They just wanted to come, escape, and breathe—to get out of the unbearable atmosphere of the tents.”
Amid an escalating humanitarian crisis, displaced women in Deir Al-Balah face compounded hardships. According to UN reports, over 690,000 women and girls in Gaza are in urgent need of hygiene supplies, including clean water and access to toilets, as aid stocks dwindle and prices soar.
Women in the camps struggle with a profound loss of privacy and dignity. Many are forced to wear prayer garments all day—the loose and comfortable outfits that cover the whole body except for the face and the hands. Muslim women wear prayer garments to stay modest and clean while praying. Now they fear compromising their tradition of modesty by sudden displacement.
One woman remarks, “Our lives have become nothing but prayer clothes. We even go to the market wearing them … dignity has vanished.”
Against this backdrop, Najwa Abdel Aal’s crochet workshops at Ahmad Al-Kurd School—a shelter center for displaced families—offer a rare psychological and social refuge.
The workshops provide women with a safe space to express themselves, learn new skills, and attain a degree of economic independence.
When I met Om Uday, a 46-year-old participant, she lowered her eyes and then looked up with a slow laugh; her voice was steady but soft.
“I forget that I’m coming from a tent,” she says, her fingers moving on a half-finished square. “I find myself here, doing something other than lighting firewood.”
Running such a course outside her home, for women of all ages and backgrounds, was no easy feat for Najwa. Yet, after over a year of unrelenting war and siege, she felt an urgent need to leave her isolation and help others.
“Before the war, I was a productive person. I had my own business on Instagram,” she told me. “During the war, I lived a life that was not mine, that didn’t resemble me.”
Balancing the courses with home responsibilities and her three children was a challenge. Najwa credits her husband, Mohamed Mughari, a 40-year-old artist, for making her work possible. Mohamed, who used to teach arts at Yaffa School in Gaza before the war, now runs his own therapeutic art workshops for children in schools.
“If it weren’t for Mohamed, I wouldn’t have been able to give these courses and overcome all the obstacles,” Najwa says. “Everything between us is built on mutual support.”
While Najwa teaches for long hours, Mohamed stays home with the children, often handling household chores.
“Nothing gets done alone,” he tells me when I interview him. “If she kneads the dough, I light the fire. Sometimes I do the laundry for her or heat the food. Life is hard, and it needs partnership.”
In the workshop the light is gentle but clear. The women sit in comfortable positions, their backs supported, shoulders relaxed, and necks at ease, just as Najwa has instructed.
Najwa’s workshops offer a rare psychological and social refuge. Photo: Jumana Taiseer Mughari
“The first thing I focus on is the environment,” Najwa explains. “I tell them, imagine your child’s face when they see what you’ve made. Or your sister’s. That joy—it’s worth every stitch.”
Then comes the laughter. It starts when Najwa notices someone gripping the yarn too tightly, hands stiff with tension.
“Why are you holding it like you’re catching a thief?” she jokes, raising one eyebrow theatrically. The whole room would burst into giggles.
Later, the door creaks open and Um Hamdi steps in, breathless and apologetic. She’s tall, with striking light eyes, and she’s late.
“Laundry,” she says simply.
That one word opens the floodgates. Everyone is talking at once—about washing by hand, fetching water from far-off tanks, missing the privacy of a closed bathroom, or the quiet hum of a washing machine. These shared burdens spill out like stories waiting to be heard.
Maysa Harb is a tailor. When she joined the course, it was already full, but she pleaded gently: “I brought my own yarn and hook. I learn fast. I won’t be a burden.”
By the fourth session, she had crocheted a pair of cozy slippers.
Among Najwa’s students is 21-year-old Sobhiyya Hassan, who lost her father in an airstrike and now lives in a tent with 10 family members. Despite her circumstances, Sobhiyya has excelled in the workshops, even taking on crochet commissions to earn a modest income.
“She didn’t just escape her harsh reality here,” Najwa notes, speaking with pride, her hand resting lightly on Sobhiyya’s shoulder. “She worked—and found a source of income for herself.”
Najwa’s workshops extend beyond teaching crochet to acquiring skills in marketing and securing orders. Students learn financial independence in her classrooms.
“I don’t care much about profit,” Najwa said. “What matters to me is creating a family, sharing joy, and escaping from this harsh reality.”
Najwa proudly displays a child’s dress made by one of her students. Photo: Jumana Taiseer Mughari
What surprised the women most was how quickly they improved. Many joined just to “try it out,” unsure if they could finish anything. But by the third or fourth session, they were already holding finished pieces—bright, beautiful, handmade with their own hands.
Najwa sources the materials from different places, shops in Deir Al-Balah, and stores like Jaradah and Al-Shami in Gaza City. When I ask her about her upcoming projects or what she plans to do once she finishes this course, she says, “Maysa and I have an idea: Recycling clothing with crochet.”
Her eyes light up as she speaks, and she leans closer, as if letting me in on a secret: Maysa will bring her sewing machine, and with Najwa’s crochet and yarn skills, they will host a series of workshops.
