we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
My future remains on hold while I wait for the Rafah border crossing to reopen.
My friends (Mustafa, right, Azmy, middle, and me, left): The version of us that still believed in what came next. Photo: Abdalkhaliq Abugaza
It’s early February 2026, and I am finishing studying for a final exam, my notes scattered across my desk. The power flickers once, then steadies. It doesn’t bother me; I keep a power bank ready and use low brightness, just in case. In Gaza, we rely on brief power and weak data. Outside, the street is unusually quiet.
Out of habit, I close my textbook, reach for my phone, and scroll through Al Jazeera’s Telegram channel. When I see that the Rafah border has been officially reopened for passengers, my heart quickens; I sit up in my chair, and tell myself, “Don’t get excited.”
I screenshot the news and send it to my brothers and sisters in Saudi Arabia. Should my mother, remaining sister, and I leave Gaza, hoping to find safety and a better future, or stay for the life and friends we know? I know what my decision would be: The duffel bag by the door is already packed with my passport, clothes, and medications.
Then, just as quickly, leaving is no longer a possibility. Following the February 28, 2026, U.S. and Israeli strikes on Iran, the Rafah border closes once more.
Back in April 2024, my family paid the Egyptian travel company Ya Hala $20,000 to arrange for us to be added to the long queue of Gazans seeking permission to travel to Egypt through the Rafah border crossing. We had sacrificed my brother’s car, my mother’s jewelry, and my university fees to survive.
Two weeks later, on May 7, 2024, the Israeli occupation began the Rafah offensive, causing Egypt to shut down the border.
During the brief period the border was open, only a few Gazans were able to leave. Instead of being angry or even depressed, I felt numb. All our preparation and sacrifices had been for nothing. Our hope that we would soon be free was crushed.
Since it normally takes about a month to receive travel documents after the payment is made, had Israel postponed the Rafah offensive by just two weeks our lives would be completely different now.
Ready to leave, nowhere to leave to. Photo: Abdalkhaliq Abugaza
The latest closure did not shock me as much as it drained me. It felt like starting over again, packing hope away and returning to waiting without any clear end. After the crossing briefly reopened in early February 2026, I had allowed myself to imagine movement again. By the time the border closed at the end of the month, hope had folded back on itself. I felt naive to have believed that the border would stay open without further interruptions.
Leaving Gaza through Rafah is not easy. The Palestinian Authority, Egypt, European Union monitors, and Israel all have a say in who is allowed in or out of Gaza. On top of that, the Israeli occupation maintains a list of people crossing through Rafah. Even in the best of times, only about 150 people have ever been allowed to leave Gaza on any given day; I imagine myself as number 151, stuck in a queue, scrolled by, and forgotten.
There is no way for me to know when or if the border will reopen, or, if it does, whether our name will ever appear on the list. I live in a kind of limbo, unable to make plans. Because I expected to leave, I did not register for my next semester at university, so I can’t enroll in courses or make long-term commitments. Instead, I spend my time trying to find the best deal for a new laptop.
Even if the border were to reopen and my family and I received permission to leave, I would feel guilty, knowing that our good fortune may come at the cost of more deserving families.
When I think about leaving Gaza, my mind takes me back to October 6, 2023, the last normal day. That day, I went to Babaroti Café, ordered a pineapple brownie and a coffee, and sat there for hours working on my U.S. university applications. I remember thinking my biggest problem was completing my CSS (College Scholarship Service) Profile. The café had old, mismatched chairs and strange artwork that did not quite make sense. One of its walls displayed The Potato Book, an absurd book about potatoes. My friends and I used to laugh about how someone could care enough about potatoes to write a 200-page book about them. We would sit in the corner arguing about politics we barely understood and the futures we were certain we would have.
October 6, 2023, the last normal day. Photo: Abdalkhaliq Abugaza
Now, when I think of leaving Gaza, I do not think about checkpoints or luggage. Instead, I think of that table. I think of how ordinary that day was.
While Babaroti Café is still standing, I wonder what happened to the version of my friends and me that once filled it with noise and plans. If I am ever able to leave Gaza, I would not only be leaving a city under siege, I would be leaving the place where my friends knew me before the genocide reshaped us. These two and a half years of genocide will reshape the rest of our lives. I do not know if we will ever gather around that same table again, or if one day we will meet as strangers who survived the same war in different ways.
I am proud that many of my friends have been lucky enough to receive scholarships to attend universities throughout the world, even though their good fortune makes it impossible for us to stay in touch like we used to. During the genocide, my friend Mustafa and I tried to earn a little cash by spending our afternoons in front of cafés selling downloads of movies and TV shows that he and I had stored on a laptop. Later, Mustafa received a UWC (United World Colleges) scholarship offer and left for Norway to participate in its International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme. After that, life moved us in different directions; he changed, and I adapted. I miss the version of our friendship that existed before everything changed.
Even though the Rafah crossing was only briefly open this year, I remind myself that a few people did get through. One day it will open again and when it does my family and I will be ready.
We want to cook food without the scent of charcoal. We want mornings without smoke. We want a future we can plan for.
As I imagine stepping through the narrow space that separates Gaza from Egypt, I carry relief in one hand and grief in the other. Even as I hope for a better future, I know I will be losing something. While I will grieve leaving the table at Babaroti and the friends who once filled it with noise and plans, I will be relieved to live somewhere I can study, sleep through the night, and plan my future.
A door that opens an inch does not feel like freedom. It feels like a decision I need to make. For now, I wait, wondering whether I will ever be given the opportunity to make that decision.
