I am an authentic tale from Gaza; I am not just a number.

Do not forget my story

I'd rather not be a number.

Since I witnessed martyrs being buried in mass graves or called "unknown persons," that thought has persisted in my mind. There are even some body components that are unidentifiable.

Could it be that my shroud would only read, "a young woman in a black/blue blouse"?

Might I end up as a number, a "unknown person"?

I want my narrative to stick in everyone's memory. I'm not a number.

I am the girl who, during a very strict siege of Gaza, studied for high school and university under extraordinary circumstances. In order to support my father, who was worn out by the siege and had lost his job multiple times, I finished university and looked for work everywhere.

As my family's eldest daughter, I wanted to support my father and make sure we had a nice place to live.

Hold on... I want to remember everything.

I'm a refugee. In 1948, the Israeli occupation compelled my grandparents to flee our occupied territory as refugees.

They relocated to the west of the city in the Khan Younis refugee camp in the Gaza Strip.

The Israeli army forbade me from staying in that camp, even though I was born there.

We were without a place to live for two years after they destroyed our house in 2000. Prior to receiving a new home in al-Fukhari from UNRWA in 2003, we had to transfer from one uninhabitable house to another.

We attempted to establish a life in the neighborhood known as "European Housing," which was named for the European Hospital that was situated there, in that lovely location with all the fields.

With a mother and a father, the house was too small for a family of five. It required a living room, additional rooms, and kitchen renovations.

In any case, we spent around 12 years there, and in 2015, I began working as soon as I could to support my father.

I assisted him in making the place livable. Yes, we succeeded, although it was really difficult. Three months before to October 7, 2023, we completed the construction of our house.

Yes, I spent about ten years rebuilding it piece by piece within the constraints of our budget, and we only succeeded in finishing it shortly before the war.

I was already worn out by the siege and the hardships of living in Gaza when the conflict broke out. The war then arrived to totally exhaust me, break my heart, and cause me to lose my concentration.

I get up and run.

We have been fighting for something since the start of the conflict.

Fighting to stay alive, to avoid starvation or thirst, and to keep our sanity intact in the face of the atrocities we see and encounter.

We do everything we can to survive. We have experienced displacement; during my lifetime, I have resided in four homes, all of which were nearly destroyed by Israeli army bombardment.

There is nowhere safe for us to be. We experienced 500 days of pure fear before to the truce.

But regrettably, I didn't cry during the conflict. My heart was worn down and further weakened as a result of my efforts to be strong and suppress my grief and rage.

I was upbeat and encouraging to everyone in my vicinity. Yes, the northerners will come back. The troops will indeed leave Netzarim. Although I had a lot of weakness inside that I didn't want to reveal, I wanted to give everyone strength.

I thought I would die in this horrible conflict if it showed.

What gave me the best chance of surviving was the ceasefire. I thought I had succeeded. The conflict was over.

When the question, "Will the war return?" was raised “No, I don’t think it will,” I said with confidence. The conflict is over.

The war did come back, and it was closer to me than before. I experienced the constant terror of constant shelling. They attacked us with rockets, aircraft shells, and tanks, among other weapons. It was horrifying as the tanks continued to fire and the surveillance drones continued to soar.

It's been more than a week since I last slept. If I fall asleep, the sound of explosions wakes me up, and I have to sprint to get back up. I sprint through the home, but I have no idea where I'm going.

I put my palm to my heart in the never-ending panic, wondering whether it could take much more.

To avoid being just a number, I sent a message to all of my friends asking them to share my experience.

The Israeli army is destroying my neighborhood, and we are living through intolerable times. Many families are still residing here. Displacement wears them out financially, emotionally, and physically, so they don't want to leave.

When I was around eight years old in 2000, I experienced my first displacement.

My grandfather's and uncle's homes were demolished when Israeli army bulldozers entered the Khan Younis camp. Then, for whatever reason, they came to a halt at our home.

So we went out. My parents thought we could return later because it was Ramadan. They believed they had located a run-down shell of a house where we could briefly take refuge.

I would rush back to the house where I had all those wonderful memories with my grandparents and gather a few items to bring back to my mother because I couldn't handle the thought that we had lost our home.

On the first day of Eid al-Fitr, my family and I went to the house that the Israeli army had destroyed the night before. Wearing my brand-new Eid attire, I recall celebrating Eid on the debris.

Nothing is left for us to preserve; everything is destroyed by the Israeli army, leaving us with nothing but grief.

If the world doesn't defend us from this horrific army, I have no idea what the future will bring.

I'm not sure whether my heart can take these incessant noises any longer. Never forget who I am.

I've put up a fierce fight for my life. For ten years, I have dedicated myself to my career as a teacher and journalist.

I have wonderful recollections of my coworkers and pupils, whom I adore.

We adore Gaza because we can't love any other place, even if life there has never been simple.