we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
For my brother Hassan, the sounds of war are a full-scale physical and psychological assault, trapping him in a state of constant terror.
The author with his younger brother Hassan, at the home of Ramzi Abu Sahloul, where they took refuge after being forcibly displaced from their own home. Photo: Tareq Said Zaqout
There are two wars in Gaza, the one everyone sees on the news, and the silent one raging inside the head of my brother, Hassan, who is 14 years old and has autism. For him, the sounds of conflict aren’t just background noise—they are a living hell that has shattered his fragile world.
For a child like Hassan, the world is a storm of sensations. Loud sounds, bright lights or even the smallest changes in his environment can cause him unbearable pain. To survive this storm, he had built a fortress of safety through repetition: the same breakfast dish, the same path in the park, the same order of his colored blocks. This wasn’t just a habit; it was his only shield against the chaos of the outside world.
Now, imagine that shield being obliterated by the nightmare of war in Gaza. The predictable sounds of his life have been replaced by the shriek of sirens and the thunder of continuous explosions. The gentle light in his room is now the agonizing flash of fires. For him, this is not just the “sound of war” but rather a full-scale physical and psychological assault, trapping him in a state of constant terror, without the ability to comprehend the source of the threat or how to escape it.
Before this devastating war, every hour of Hassan’s day was meticulously organized, from his specific breakfast dishes to his time in the quiet corner where he would arrange his colored blocks with precision, to our short strolls in the nearby park where he would systematically examine leaves. This order was his safe haven, providing him with the psychological stability he so desperately needed.
I vividly remember how his eyes would light up when we opened his favorite packet of tea biscuits, or how he would flash his rare smile while on the swing in the park, oblivious to all the noise around him. These small moments were our daily triumphs as a family, proof that we were succeeding in providing a stable environment for him. Even his attendance at a specialized school, Al-Irada School for Autism, was a treasured part of this order. In mere moments, the war erased all of it, destroying the fragile bridges that connect children like Hassan to the world.
Hassan showcases the Lego tower he created. Photo: Tareq Said Zaqoout
With every bomb that shakes the ground and every missile that pierces the sky, Hassan’s world completely collapses. The sounds are no longer just noise; they are deafening assaults that reverberate through every cell in his body. The flashes of explosions have turned into an agonizing light that pierces his sensitive eyes. His blocks have disappeared, the park strolls have vanished, and the tea biscuits are a distant memory.
I see my 14-year-old brother regressing to early childhood behaviors. He hides under tables, screams uncontrollably, and sometimes hits his head against the wall in overwhelming fits of despair. His frail body, once full of life, now twists with every explosion as if trying to escape his own skin. I look into his wide eyes and see a silent terror that tears my heart apart. Hassan is no longer the child who learned to ask for his biscuit or express his desires with a gesture; those hard-won skills have vanished under the weight of trauma and constant turmoil.
As a family, we face an unspeakable double burden. In addition to the constant fear for our own lives, we live in perpetual anxiety about how to protect Hassan. I see my mother struggling to soothe his terror, holding him close and singing songs we try to keep from fading from his memory, but even her voice is no longer enough. I see my father, burdened with finding a safe place for us, his eyes reflecting a worry no less profound than his son’s. Every day is a new struggle to find a safe spot, some food, and to try and create a simple illusion of order in a world crumbling around us.
Access to specialized care in Gaza is nearly impossible under normal circumstances, let alone during this aggression. Dr. Islam Said Barakat, the director of the Al-Irada School for Autism, states: “The challenges faced by autistic children in Gaza are beyond imagination. In normal times, we struggled to provide a suitable environment. Now, all we can offer is an attempt to save their lives. The infrastructure for psychological support has been completely destroyed, leaving these children without any specialized assistance.”
Specialized centers, if not destroyed, lack everything. The specialists themselves have been displaced or face harsh conditions, and families cannot access any help due to the bombing and lack of security.
Hassan’s story is not an isolated one; it echoes the stories of thousands of autistic children in Gaza. They have no voice to convey their suffering to the world. They are the most marginalized group amidst a widespread humanitarian catastrophe, their tragedy often forgotten beneath the layers of news and other suffering.
The humanitarian response must go beyond merely providing food and shelter. It must include specialized psychological support, the provision of safe and stable environments whenever possible, and resources to help autistic children process trauma and halt the regression of their skills. To ignore their needs is to condemn them and their families to further isolation and despair.
How can the world ignore these children? And what is our humanitarian responsibility to these children whose fragile worlds are being shattered? Providing safe passage, specialized psychological support, and targeted humanitarian aid for this group is an urgent humanitarian necessity that must be at the forefront of the response to the crisis in Gaza.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
