I remember clearly the night Al-Ahli (Al-Ma’amadani) Hospital was bombed. That night, the internet was cut off, and we learned about the massacre through phone calls and fragments of messages. I stayed awake until morning, waiting for the connection to return, believing that once the world saw what had happened, Israel would finally be held accountable.
When the connection came back, the truth was devastating. A single statement from the Israeli authorities – “Intelligence from multiple sources we have in our hands indicates that Islamic Jihad is responsible for the failed rocket launch which hit the hospital in Gaza” – was enough for many media outlets to cast doubt, delay condemnation, and move on. More than 500 Palestinians killed that night were immediately questioned, reframed, or erased. That was the moment I understood something clearly: if we did not tell our own stories, they would be rewritten for us and as they say “Until the lion learns to write, every story will glorify the hunter.”.
In Gaza, professors at the Islamic University – one of the most prominent universities in Palestine – especially in the literature department, believed deeply in the power of words. Professors like Refaat Alareer inspired students and people across Gaza to write their stories. With the support of We Are Not Numbers (WANN), which regards him as a guiding figure, a special mentoring program connected young Palestinian writers with volunteers – many of them writers and professors – who helped us improve our craft. This simple but transformative solidarity enabled Palestinian youth to document their experiences and ensure their stories reached the world in their own voice.
I was seventeen when I tried to write an article for the first time. I watched my sister submitting her work to international platforms, and I felt the urge to tell my own story. I chose to write about my small business, which I had started when I was sixteen. At the time, I did not care about publishing. I was writing for myself, holding my phone and typing in the Notes app, trying to preserve the memory of my first real adventure in life.
After my sister insisted, I sent the piece to We Are Not Numbers. To my surprise, readers in Europe were eager to learn more – not just about me, but about how a young person could start a business in Gaza despite siege and isolation. That was the moment I realized my voice was being heard.
At the same time, I felt a responsibility to keep writing – not only about myself, but about what we were living through. Week after week, I wrote more articles. I met other young writers from Gaza who were also documenting everything, challenging the lies spread across much of Western media. Some of them struggled to find time to write while searching for food or shelter – because in the middle of a genocide, survival itself consumes every hour.
As time passed, we began to feel that we were being heard. Our stories were no longer invisible. The world slowly began to understand that Palestinians are not numbers, not “collateral damage,” and not terrorists, as Israeli propaganda portrayed us. We are human beings. And as more people around the world took to the streets in protest and solidarity, it became clear that truth – once written and shared – can no longer be fully erased.
Most people in Gaza were not even truly aware of their human rights. In school, human rights classes often felt almost ironic. When teachers explained the Geneva Conventions or the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, they would say, half-seriously, “If we were not Palestinian, we would be treated this way.” Even the teachers themselves did not fully believe what they were teaching.
For years, we learned to die in silence, we were never used to having cameras constantly directed at us. When there was brief international attention, it was rarely because we were the victims, but because Israel is the perpetrator. Palestinian lives were not mourned for their own sake. They were footnotes.
This time felt different, the whole world was watching. People knew the truth. For a brief moment, we believed that visibility alone would force change–that once Gaza was seen clearly, something would finally stop this madness.
Day by day, reality proved otherwise. With each new war crime documented, it became clearer that our teacher had been right; human rights weren't written for us. Even when the truth spread across screens and streets, governments did not act. They issued statements, expressed “concern,” and then continued as usual. The problem was no longer the absence of truth–it was that the truth itself was unwelcome.
Since October, more than 70,925 Palestinians have been killed. Even after a so-called ceasefire, the death toll continued to rise. At least 401 more Palestinians were killed. The world did not turn away because it did not know what was happening in Gaza. It turned away because knowing was inconvenient. Because acting would have required a choice, and that choice was avoided.
So the question remains: Why do Palestinians keep writing? Why do we keep documenting, exposing, speaking, when we know it may not lead to results, at least not in the near future? Is it belief that freedom will someday come? Or the faith that truth should never be hidden? Belief in humanity beyond governments?
For me, it is all of that, and something darker, something deeper.
If we must die, we refuse to do so in a way that comforts our killer.We did not live the lives we chose, mostly unseen so at the very least, we want our deaths to be shaped by us “Impossible to ignore”.
If we must die, let it be in a way that disturbs the world, that bothers it, that refuses to offer silence as permission. Let our voices be so persistent, so inconvenient, that they haunt those who chose not to act.
If we must die, let it be on our terms.
