we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
With Gaza’s Enforcement Department no longer functioning, men can avoid paying support and even take sons and daughters from their mothers.
A wedding hall in Gaza, 2026. Photo provided to We Are Not Numbers
Imagine struggling for years to obtain your freedom but having to pay the highest price for it. Imagine a silent home that was once filled with children’s laughter. Imagine being unable to see your children for years — or being separated from them during a war.
This is the reality for many divorced women in Gaza — women who long to hold their children and savor the sweet, soapy scent of their hair after a shower, or the sound of small voices echoing through the house, calling out “Mama,” seeking reassurance that she is there.
My husband and I had succumbed to family pressure to marry, and we were both unhappy. He was a difficult man, and his negative character resulted in constant conflict with his family, my family, and me. He was dishonest and borrowed money that he couldn’t repay. He was cruel and dismissive. The final straw was when I learned that he had never wanted to marry me because he was in love with someone else. I knew the atmosphere in the home would affect the children. Divorce is never an easy decision, but I felt I had no choice.
We agreed to pursue a divorce in April 2025 and went to court in May. The process was completed swiftly, and once our divorce was finalized, I felt enormous relief, as if I had been released from prison, but grateful that my unhappy marriage had produced my two beloved girls.
When a couple divorces in Gaza, the mother usually retains legal and religious custody of the children. If the father takes the children without a court order or the mother’s permission, the police are authorized to go to the father’s home, take the children, and return them to their mother.
In Gaza, marriage certificates also include a delayed dowry, which is a portion of the Mahr marriage contract, intended to provide financial security for a woman after divorce. Once a divorce certificate is obtained, the woman can file a claim through the court if the father is unable to pay the entire amount at once. The court mandates that a specific amount be deducted directly from the ex-husband’s monthly salary until the amount is paid off. If he refuses, he is imprisoned.
But because of the war, Gaza no longer has an Enforcement Department. In its absence, there is no deterrent to prevent the father from depriving the mother of her children.
And this is what happened to me — I was forced to give them up.
Having no job, I was under pressure because I couldn’t afford to support my daughters. We were in the midst of famine. Everything was expensive, and my girls were always crying when we woke up hungry. We spent all our time trying to find food or ingredients to bake bread.
In Gaza, most divorced women are unemployed. Before the war, an ex-wife would have received her delayed dowry and, along with claiming custody, could file a case for alimony. Even if not divorced, she could initiate a maintenance claim for their children’s upkeep, and failure to pay would result in prison. But without Enforcement Department action, there is no way to force the father to pay, and so children are deprived of food and clothing if the mother lacks the necessary income to meet these essential needs. Widows and orphans can apply for help through the Orphan Sponsorship program, but children of divorce are often left behind.
My relatives and all our visitors were saying, “Give him the kids. He’ll see how difficult it is to raise them, and he’ll give them back to you and pay for their support.” Others agreed: “You will suffer raising them alone and without a job, while he will have his life and get married again.”
It was not an easy decision to make, but, once again, I felt I had no choice. I put a stone in my heart, and went to a lawyer, the mediator between my ex-husband and me. I told him to call their father to take my two daughters, and I waited outside the lawyer’s office with my kids until he came. My ex-husband and his corrupt friends arrived as if preparing for battle. I told my daughters to run to their father, and I moved to another street to prevent him and his friends from following me. But, later the same day, he and his friends went to my martyred aunt’s home, where my parents had been displaced to after they lost their own home. I arrived in time to see them attacking my family, screaming in fury. One of his friends was carrying a knife, and I stayed out of sight until they left.
“You made the right decision,” my father said.
But had I really? My mind was wandering, lost.
At midnight, I often awoke unable to breathe properly. The sound of bombardment never ceased. I could see the rubble and smell the scent of dust. I experienced despair and hopelessness, waiting for news that the war would end. My heart was pleading with each bomb I heard: “God, please protect them and make our meeting soon.” It felt like it was too much for my heart to handle, and I feared those challenging days would never come to an end. I wondered if God was testing my patience.
To distract me from my suffering, my family did their best to keep me occupied with films, because they know how much I enjoy them. They encouraged me to take courses to improve my skills. They even brought in an internet connection to help me work online.
But I could not forget my children. My younger daughter loved to wear a skirt over her other clothes, which made us giggle at her peculiar sense of style. To capture the scent of my elder daughter, I would hug the blue dress she’d worn for Eid the previous month. The silence felt like a physical weight, and all I had left of them was the skirt and dress.
My heart was being suffocated by not seeing them when I woke each morning, my suffering exacerbated by the fact that I had no idea whether they were safe. What would happen if they vanished forever without my knowledge? Would I have to live in a world without them?
I severely regret it still — that I abandoned them and handed them to such a father. Part of me was saying, if they are gone, will I forgive myself for listening to others? Will my girls forgive me in heaven? How will I endure life without them? They were the reason I clung to life and woke up every morning. They were the reason I was searching for work — to make a beautiful future for them.
But through all this, I never stopped believing in God. So often, I collapsed onto the prayer rug, asking Allah to soothe my sorrow and bring us back together as quickly as possible. I prayed for relief, asking, “How many days must I live without their scent?” I began to think that God was making me suffer so that I would be more resilient in the face of society’s lack of compassion for divorced women.
But I was one of the lucky ones, because, finally, after not seeing my children for 50 days, they were returned to me. In my specific case, I didn’t actually seek out a mukhtar (community and family adviser/mediator). Instead, I approached a mediator who was also a lawyer to initiate the conversation with my ex-husband and negotiate a resolution.
Ultimately, the lawyer was able to convince him to return the children to my care. At the time, my ex-husband was preparing to remarry, and his future wife was not interested in raising his children from a previous marriage. The lawyer succeeded in getting a written agreement from my ex-husband that he would pay a specific amount of money weekly. We also agreed on visiting rights, and the lawyer extracted a legally binding pledge from him not to attack us.
My ex-husband has remarried now, and the children are safely back with me. After reducing the payments, he eventually stopped paying altogether. But no matter how much my daughters suffer with me, I will never again leave them with him. I am applying for scholarships to achieve the dreams that my previous marriage prevented me from following, and I will work online to support my children and to pay off my family’s debts.
I will never forget how much my girls were suffering, both psychologically and physically, when they came back to me. I ran with them from the doctor to the psychologist, sometimes on the same day.
I will never leave them again, no matter how much my relatives poison me with their advice and opinions. I know now that no one in the whole world will love and care for my children and their future more than I do.
