we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
We Are Not Numbers has amplified my voice and also placed me within a supportive community of writers.
Our community, the Gaza English Corner. Mariam Mushtaha is in the front row, left. Photo: Ziad Zaqout
“One day, you will no longer belong only to me. You will become a collection of stories many people will read and share,” I once whispered to my journal. Before heading to sleep, I used to pick it up and write down my dreams, fears, and spontaneous thoughts.
It was medium-sized with a black cover partially torn and pages wrinkled by time and five relocations. In it, I recorded my disbelief that northern Gaza, where I lived, had lost its virtual connection to the outside world. The bombings were endless. Some nights I wasn’t sure whether I would wake up the next morning or turn into a memory.
The internet finally flickered back after months. The connection could not be relied upon, but nevertheless my university, the Islamic University of Gaza, announced the resumption of online classes. I resolved to continue my education. Sometimes I spent the entire night on the balcony searching for a signal to download a lecture under the constant buzz of quadcopters and the hum of drones.
Electricity was nowhere to be found. Solar power had become the only source of electricity, and the sight of people walking long distances to phone-charging stations had become commonplace. Like everyone else, I would wait there for hours to charge my phone. Only after it was fully charged could I use it to attend classes and study.
Lacking face-to-face interaction, Moodle, Facebook, and WhatsApp became our main channels for communicating with professors and keeping up with university updates — assignments, exams, and online lectures. Each course had its own WhatsApp group, and we students also created our own groups to share information, discuss classes, and help each other with anything related to university.
Through those groups, I met my friend Esraa Abu Qamar, who was also in the English department. What began as conversations about university soon grew into an authentic friendship. Today, Esraa is one of my best friends.
She was already a writer, while I had no experience beyond the pages of my journal. At the time, I didn’t imagine that the thoughts, stories, and memories I wrote down could one day be transformed into stories read by thousands. I doubted my ability to break silence… to show my vulnerability to the world. I didn’t think my English was good enough and worried that my stories would not interest others.
By contrast, Esraa often shared her writing on Facebook and Instagram. I used to read her pieces and quietly follow what she was posting. Over time, I became curious and decided to ask her how she managed to publish her essays in different outlets. Was it possible that I, too, had many stories to tell? That every person in Gaza did?
“How do you do it?” I asked. “Start with We Are Not Numbers,” she replied. “They’ll help you grow.” She taught me how to create a pitch and how to write a professional email. She further explained that We Are Not Numbers offers something unique. It pairs writers with professional mentors who guide them through every step of the writing process.
As an English student, I was immediately drawn to the opportunity. I believed it would allow me to build relationships with experienced people from around the world while improving my English language skills. I was intrigued by the challenge of learning advanced vocabulary, exploring different sentence structures, and discovering new approaches to storytelling.
I pitched WANN for the first time in January 2025. Before pressing “Send,” I read and then reread every sentence, convinced my English sounded awkward and that it would not be worth reading. That pitch was rejected. Yet I didn’t give up. I pitched them a second time. For two days, I refreshed my inbox more times than I could count. Every notification made my heart race. Then I opened my email and saw, “Go ahead with your writing.” I read the sentence once. Then again. The promise I had whispered to my journal no longer felt impossible. And after my first essay was published, I finally became a WANN writer.
The relationships I have made through WANN have been one of the most rewarding gifts of my journey as a writer and as an English student.
I am especially grateful to WANN’s senior editor, whose comments taught me how to strengthen a scene, ask better questions, and trust my own voice. Through WANN, I have built meaningful relationships with more than 10 mentors whom I deeply respect and admire. Even today, whenever I reach out to them for assistance, they never hesitate to help in any way they can, from securing scholarships to practicing English.
They also do not shy away from showing their support for Palestine and Gaza in particular. My mentor Pam, with whom I worked on my piece Two years of resisting displacement, once shared with me a photo of a hand-painted mural hung in her hometown, revealing residents’ support for Palestine.
A mural in Richmond, Virginia, the hometown of one of Mariam’s mentors. Photo: Pam Kirby
I also formed virtual friendships with fellow writers, many of whom I later discovered are studying at my university. Members of WANN’s WhatsApp group frequently share opportunities like invitations to podcasts, interviews, and other events.
After the ceasefire that took place in October 2025, people gradually began returning to activities on the ground, and WANN started offering in-person opportunities as well.
In March 2026, I attended a workshop arranged by the Community Development and Media Center. The workshop focused on journalists’ safety in the field and explored how to assess and manage risks while reporting in conflict zones. The topic was journalists’ occupational safety principles. We discussed situations any journalist on the ground might encounter and how to handle them. For instance, a journalist must know how to perform first aid in case they or any of their colleagues get injured. In addition, they have to take extra equipment like a power bank in case their mobile’s battery dies.
That experience proved to me that writing has connected us writers in ways that go far beyond words. It united us not only through our shared hardships, but also through our dreams and our determination to learn. We all lost our homes, searched for weak internet signals, and wrote stories while the sound of drones filled the sky. We all have the same dream: that our voice reaches as many people as possible, that the truth we tell the world would one day become our ticket to freedom from occupation.
On April 29, Said Saloul, a fellow WANN writer, launched his project: a community called Gaza English Corner, that brings writers together to exchange ideas, discuss stories, and practice English in an engaging environment. The initiative aims to help participants improve their language skills through interaction and conversations rather than relying merely on traditional learning methods.
Said believes that learning does not have to be rigid; it can be enjoyable at the same time. I joined the community, and we have met several times. Through the community, I met my fellow writer Shahed AbuAlShaikh, who also joined it through the WANN group. Shahed is a wonderful person whose love for writing is boundless. She graduated from the English department at the Islamic University of Gaza during the genocide, then turned to writing as a way to connect with the world.
A selfie of Mariam Mushtaha (right)and her friend Shahed AbuAlShaikh in Gaza Park at Gaza City. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh
WANN is a network of paths that leads writers to meaningful friendships, kindred spirits, and places we never imagined we would reach. WANN allows Palestinians to share their thoughts with the entire world and to reach those who have never heard of Gaza and Palestine.
What makes WANN different from other platforms is that there is a sense of community where opportunities are not limited to writing, and virtual relationships become real-life friendships. I am grateful to be part of this program. It has taught me that my voice matters and my stories deserve reading.
I miss my journal. I lost it in Khan Younis, where our last displacement was. Although it is not with me now, it is not really lost. Its contents have reached many people in the stories I have shared through WANN. I just wish I could tell it that the promises I whispered came true.
