we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Despite the closed borders, the unremitting attacks, and the attempts to silence us, I wrote and published a novel about it all.
Pursuing her writing. Photo provided by Amal Mohammed Abu Saif
I used to love life and adore laughter and was fond of the joy of children. I was attached to anything that brings happiness to a person and filled with positivity — until this haze descended upon us. My — our — vision became blurred. The vibrant colors turned gray, and the gray turned to black. We began to utter words that turn the hair gray: bombing, displacement, hunger, dismembered bodies, evacuations, crying, funerals, fear, children without heads, prices, flour, and water.
If I had the chance, I would write an entire book about each of these words, one by one. Everything that’s happening pushed me to write. I took my pen as a weapon, pouring everything inside me onto the paper, as if it was the only escape.
On January 4, 2024, while the world was welcoming the new year with fireworks, we in Gaza were doing so in our own way. On this particular night, I was sitting with my family when suddenly stones began to fall like rain above our heads.
“Don’t be afraid, kids; it’s targeting the land behind us,” my father said. Then to me, as I am the eldest, he added, “Amal, check on your siblings.” My father didn’t know that the situation was enough to turn me back into a child, crying in the corner of the house.
“Noor, Zahra, Marah, are you okay?” Noor had become like someone deaf; she couldn’t hear or speak, as a large stone had fallen beside her, almost taking her life. But the mercy of God was present at all times. We realized this was an evacuation signal, from the noise of people around us, which stunned our minds and paralyzed our thoughts.
It was clear that things were difficult and someone wise must emerge to guide us immediately. Noor was hopeless; she was in a state of shock, and we had no time to help her. My mother, Zahra, and I led us out, carrying the supplies that had been prepared beforehand. (I forgot to tell you before that preparing the evacuation bags is one of the earliest rituals of war.) We carried our souls in our hands, along with the bags, and went into the unknown.
The unknown, what we thought would be bitter, was indeed as bitter as gall. We searched for anything to quell our hunger. We landed at a tent in the middle of farmland, with no essentials, no water, no bathroom, and not fit for human life. Yet, we accepted it to escape certain death, not realizing that death traveled with us, as if we had packed it in one of those bags.
Life in the tents is painful; it feels as though all the oppression of the world has gathered in your soul, and you can neither swallow it nor spit it out. You have no other choice but to adapt. Rain pours down on you and your belongings, and you are powerless to do anything, so you just watch, and your anger grows. “Where will I take the things?!” There is no roof around you.
My tears pour down just like the rain, as if they are in direct proportion to each other. In that moment, I lost all passion, despite being “hope” itself.
Life in the tents is painful. Photo: Amal Mohammed Abu Saif
From the heart of this suffering, my first novel was born: “Atheer Gaza.” In it, I highlight both the war and the hope for life. When all paths were blocked, I turned to writing, but there are no pens in Gaza. I wouldn’t let that be an obstacle — I had my phone.
I wrote in the Notes app, hoping that one day it would become a memory and a testimony if I survived this war. If I didn’t survive, I wanted my story to be told, to take its time, and to shine like diamonds — it deserves to.
I wrote the first chapter and called it Atheer, after the main character. The novel is the echo of our suffocated voices in the media, in life, and in the world’s memory; it was born from the heart of a grieving city, from the cries of children, the tears of mothers, the helplessness of fathers, and the orphanhood of children. I wrote it while hearing the bombings continuing, swallowing sorrow, burying loved ones, drying my tears, and continuing to write.
Let me tell you a little about it… Atheer, our heroine, lives what we live in Gaza. She is a 20-year-old girl who lost her sister, her home, and her dreams. She survived death several times, was displaced, and lived in fear and homelessness, but she adapted — because the war lasted, and waiting wore down the souls. She had dreams, but all her dreams were killed by a rocket.
Atheer lost her dearest ones, and we are all Atheer.
The character of Aunt Amina in the novel represents the resilient women who refuse to leave their land. She embodies every woman in Gaza — cooking on firewood, tending to the wounded, protecting her children, charging her energy with prayers.
My novel documents the crimes of the occupation and exposes its brutality. The occupiers violated everything: humans, trees, stones, houses, schools, and hospitals. I wrote this novel to prove to myself first that I am capable, just like the heroine of the story, and that hope is the key to life. I wrote it in just a month and a half. Despite the war, it was published by Al-Ramouz Arabic Publishing House in Turkey and it is also distributed in Iraq, Libya, Yemen, Syria, Egypt, and Oman.
The novel, “Atheer Gaza.” Photo: Amal Mohammed Abu Saif
All of this was to make my voice heard, to prove that the oppressed cannot be defeated by pain, and that injustice does not last. Despite the closed borders and the attempts to silence us, I wrote, published, and fought with words. I didn’t leave anything unwritten.
I remember the drones and their buzzing, the constant headache. I remember everything.
I remember what my friends in the north, in Jabaliya, endured. Shams Muhanna’s house is near the Falluja cemetery. One day, the occupation forces advanced near the cemetery with tanks and fired a shell at them. The house caught fire, and they had to flee. Some time later, their entire house was bombed, and now they are displaced.
I remember also what my aunt endured. Huda Tayseer Jouda suffered from cancer and was waiting for travel authorization to obtain medical treatment. She and her children struggled to find a meal; my aunt died while dreaming of a piece of meat. She died full of pain and longing, in a massacre of everyone in her family who was at home. She died in May 2024, and we here still miss her.
I think of the grief of Huda’s one daughter, who was in the south when her family was massacred and had not seen her mother for a whole year before she died. Two years after their separation, she is still fighting her loneliness.
We pray that God gives her patience after losing not only her mother, but also her father, sister, three brothers, her brother’s wife, and her brother’s daughter.
I wrote about our displacement, the cries of mothers, and the screams. I wrote about our great heritage and our deep connection to it, how it reflects our identity and homeland. The towering olive trees — many of them uprooted by the bombings — but our stories will never be uprooted.
I continued writing in the tent until we returned to our home a month after being displaced. We returned tired, hurt, and empty of passion. We now live on the ruins of hope, on the memory of days when we could only dream. We fear death — not because it’s the end, but because it comes with an unbearable cruelty. One rocket is enough to turn you into fragments, without features, identity, or form.
We lived scenes that take your breath away, and this is one of them: a whistle, then a rocket — our house shook and collapsed on our heads. Everything shattered, and the door closed. We were trapped in the smoke, trying to escape, but we couldn’t open the door. Suddenly, my uncle’s wife — whom we now call “Mother of the Martyrs,” because she lost all her sons and was left alone — opened the door and saved us.
That day, something changed inside me. We no longer fear death as much as we fear being forgotten, being left under the rubble of the house, becoming just numbers. So I continued writing to make this my words as witness for me after I leave this harsh world.
The occupation doesn’t only steal land; it steals dreams, loved ones, laughter, the embrace of fathers, the kiss of mothers, the tenderness of siblings, the elegance of girls, the family gathering, and the hot cup of tea. It robs us of our right to live, learn, and feel safe. It steals everything.
But despite all this, I will not stop. I will continue, and I will scream with every word I own: We are not numbers. I wrote to be myself, so that war does not erase my identity or kill me, so that I am not just another number in the list of martyrs, so that you do not forget me.
I am here. I am hope.
Editor’s note: Amal’s book “Atheer Gaza” (in Arabic) can be obtained from the Turkish publisher, Dar Al-Rumooz Al-Arabiya.
