we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
My diary records my denial, fear, and fragile hope — until the ceasefire holds and home beckons.
The Jan. 15 diary entry. Photo: Sara Nabil Hegy
It is a fact universally acknowledged that when someone experiences a tragic event, they will most likely go through what we call “denial.” However, I find my mind rejecting every piece of news I come across about the ceasefire.
Something within my soul holds me back from fully embracing the joy it should bring. A part of me has become accustomed to the roller coaster of negotiations, and it is now waiting for the inevitable fall when the words “the negotiations have failed” arrive.
Have I become so used to living in constant anguish that I cannot comprehend the ecstasy I am supposed to feel?
The rigid rational being within me insists that I must wait. I have to remain in this state of denial to protect my sanity in case everything collapses and drags me back into the darkness of frustration. Yet, my tears betray me as they reveal the hopeful girl inside who is dying from her longing for home.
My mother, my aunt, my uncle, and everyone in the neighboring tents said they didn’t sleep last night. They are all busy making plans for the day of return. They’re discussing what to take with them and what to leave behind in this exile.
On the other hand, I could not help but remain silent and resort back to my notes and lectures and study just as I have been doing for the past few months to escape my turmoil.
I am less than a month away from graduation. I have even spent the past fortnight scornfully inviting people to the graduation party I plan to hold in our tent here in Nuseirat.
Mama always said that if universities hadn’t resumed education, I would have gone mad a long time ago.
Now she says I’m going to celebrate my graduation in Gaza. And this confuses me more.
Why can’t I just go with the flow and start making my own plans for returning home?
Let alone going back to Gaza, I even find myself on edge as I try to picture myself leaving behind the struggles of life in the tent.
Am I truly going to step into a place where the walls are made of concrete rather than fragile fabric? It has become a dream for me to rest on a mattress that doesn’t sink into the cold sand — or not to wake up from the intense shivering of my body due to the biting cold of the night.
If comprehending such minor details is this challenging to me, it must be normal that I find the idea of returning to Gaza unfathomable, right?
Sara’s family’s tent in Nuseirat. Her study area is at right. Photo: Sara Nabil Hegy
I’m still studying, but I hear whistles and cheers coming from a distance.
Could it be true? Is it really over?
I’m afraid.
How is feeling such immense happiness so easy for them? How can they simply go along with it?
I want to ask someone about these distant sounds, but I’m scared.
Are they really celebrating, or is this just another one of those days when people randomly celebrate nothing in a desperate attempt to summon a ceasefire?
~
I checked the news. There is nothing worth mentioning yet.
It was just another round on this roller coaster.
This is driving me nuts and I don’t know how much more I can take.
I promised myself not to think or write about the ceasefire anymore. Any topic even remotely related to the news was forbidden until further notice.
Yet here I am, breaking my own rules.
The mere thought of the word “return” summons the writer within me.
I genuinely believed she was gone forever, and that her muse was permanently lost to the agony of war. But it turns out she was only hiding — somewhere the beasts of fear and the coldness of death couldn’t reach her pure soul.
She knew she would perish if she lost her romantic innocence. Her childlike vision had to remain untouched far away from the distressing experience of war; otherwise, her ink would dry forever.
Now, all I can think about is how much I fear losing her if this does not go well.
Sara’s study area in displacement. Photo: Sara Nabil Hegy
Bullets are flying through the air. Screams fill the streets. People are running everywhere. But it’s not a bombing or a targeted house.
They are celebrating.
Celebrating the end of the war!
It’s over.
I’m going home!
I can’t stop writing.
Everything is finally finding its way back to where it belongs.
It’s true.
It’s OVER. OVER. OVER.
I cannot hold back my pen or my tears. It’s happening! The miracle is happening. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m going home.
I can celebrate, just like them.
The bullets, the screams, the rush — everything is born out of joy. The happiness I denied myself for so long now overwhelms me, compelling me to live it without hesitation.
I can’t stop writing. I want to immortalize this moment. It is my first real breath in 15 months.
No more death.
No more pain.
No more tears.
We’re going home!
