Good News Comes For Eman

From We Are Not Numbers

Basman Derawi

Gaza Strip

January 14, 2024

Eman Dewari along with her husband Tayseer Abu Holy and her four children (from left to right) Mohab, Aser, Mohaymen, and Eliaa. The children were all under the age of 16. Photo provided by Basman Dewari.

They have thrown my heart into the fire. 

Now, they add another gallon

of gasoline. 

They killed Eman, my young sister. 

Leaving my mother’s heart 

suspended between earth and sky.

The good news is 

that she is no longer on earth. 

She no longer belongs 

to a world that buried her 

under the rubble of her house. 

Her killer did not allow 

any attempt to rescue her.

They let her spend the night 

cold, alone, tasting her own blood, 

away from her child 

she was trying to reach 

when her home fell 

all over her head.

The good news is 

she will meet my dad. 

I am sure she missed him a lot. 

She will live in a space 

where sounds can’t hurt anymore. 

She will spend time again 

with her family without seeing the shadow 

of their death reflected on the curtains 

in a dark room illuminated 

by the flashing of missiles.

The bad news is she will miss her mother and siblings. 

Maybe she will miss one amputated dream.

Yet the good news is 

she is not going to miss 

any of her children. 

They killed them all together.

Editor’s note: Eman Derawi was killed with her family by Israel on Jan. 4, 2024. Basman Derawi has also commemorated in poems his good friends Essa Essa, killed on Nov. 22, 2023, and Oudah Al Haw, killed on Jan. 3, 2024.

Mentor Kevin Hadduck,

Helena, Montana, USA

I Miss You, My Brother

At the end of the road I see you, standing tall. Why are you fading?

From We Are Not Numbers

Mahmoud Alyazji

Gaza Strip

Mohammed and Mahmoud. Photo provided by Mahmoud Alyuazjji

Before I sleep, I have this image of your body under the rubble.  Then I pick up my phone and go to our photos.

Today, I ate ice cream. It’s been a long time since I did. I know you’re in a better place, but I wanted you here with me. I wanted to buy you the chocolate flavour that you liked; it would be my treat.

When coming from my exchange program in the United States, I wanted to bring you that Barcelona T-shirt you liked, and heavy winter gloves because your hands are always cold in the winter.

I’m trying to heal, my friend. I go for long runs. At the end of the road, I see you, standing tall. You don’t seem happy though. You’re making that face you used when complaining about your unhappy times.

Why are you fading? I’m coming. I’m running faster. I can hear your “Jadah ya Hoda  —  you’re a strong and great person, Hoda.” You always told me this.

Before I sleep, I have this image of your body under the rubble. It flashes into my mind and makes my heart sink. Then I pick up my phone and go to our photos. I look at you carrying the watermelon on the beach and smiling, in hopes it will wipe out the cruel image of your cold body buried under the rubble. But my chest is so tight. I am angry. I want to get on top of this world and scream loudly — loud enough for the whole world to hear me. I want to burst their ears. My scream would echo pain and draw a rainbow of blood.

Mohammed, did you die while holding your mom? Your mom used to cook for us and insisted that we eat. Or in your dad’s arms? The last time we had a barbecue together, he taught me how to do it professionally and called you to take a picture of me doing it.

Last week I told my brother, Ahmed, about you. Ahmed mostly doesn’t cry, but I heard him sniffing down the phone. My mom cried, too. She remembers that you loved her mahashi. My whole family loved you, even my cat, Bsbs. You were our brother.

You were that friend who was always one call away, always helping and giving. A month before I left Gaza, you and the two Khalids would come to my house every day. I used to tell you jokingly to go home. “I’m travelling, not dying.” But you insisted on coming, and we would sit, talk, and joke while drinking tea and eating bzr (sunflower seeds).

When I video-called you online, you said, “Hoda, it doesn’t feel the same without you.” I said it was only a couple of months till I’d be back. I said we would go for shawarma and eat luqaimat. I never thought I would not see you again!

You made a special video before I left to tell me how much you would miss me. I’m looking at each image, tears running down my cheeks, heart burning, hands shaking as I write these words. I miss you, my brother.

I never thought I’d lose you like this. I’ll never forget that you and your family were killed by an Israeli airstrike while you were sheltering under your grandfather’s roof.

I want to reach you. I want to see you, my friend, so bad. I want to give you one last hug.

I’ll miss you calling me for a walk just to talk and talk. I never thought twice before telling you anything, and I am sure you didn’t either. I’ll miss you in my classes. I remember the countless times we laughed, and nobody understood why but you and me. I’ll miss you showing me your wonderful translations. You were so talented and hard working. I’ll never forget your smile, dreams, voice, positivity, generosity, and kindness. You and your family were a second family to me.

I love you so much habibi Mohammed Zaher Hammo. I love you, and I’ll remember you until the day I die.

Allah Yerhamko – may you rest in peace.

Watch this essay in video. Read other tributes to Mohammed Zaher Hammo.

Mentor: Umi Sinha

Palestine Voices: Jana Alhanafi

Jana Alhanafi is mentored by David Heap at We Are Not Numbers

This is our third publication of works by Palestinians. These creatives are supported and mentored by We Are Not Numbers.

The past week has brought a shattering series of events. As is so often the case in these polarised times, too many responses are full of hatred, violence, revenge, unholy rejoicing over past deaths and baying for more destruction.

For all of us who long for peace, this is a challenging time. Let’s not give up on the quest to build connections, and find ways to move through the brokenness all around us.

Rose Levinson, Ph.D.

Founder of Emerging Voices

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Jana Alhanafi

Our Palestinian writer, Jana Alhanafi, lives in Lebanon. She is mentored by WANN (We Are Not Numbers). Note: this story was written before October 2023.

Jana Alhanafi

An image reveals a Palestinian love story in Lebanon, weaving together resilience, culture, and emotions.

A revelatory conversation about a photo from my parents’ wedding came on a day when I was exhausted from my previous night’s work. I had been watching news of the fires engulfing the forests of the south in Lebanon, very close to where I live and threatening nearby compounds. My work in news editing forces me to stay up late during such urgent events. Also that day, I had to present research about ethical values in my journalism course on campus, so I was very tired when I finally hurried home.

The next morning, I discovered one photo among the old photographs in a room of our home that echoes with stories of individual lives interwoven into a family tapestry. It was the photo of my parents’ wedding. Its edges had gently curled with age.

It’s more than just an image, as my dad said. It’s a testament of the love they still share. His eyes spoke louder than words.

Image of a wedding in a Palestinian village by Ibrahim Ghannam. Courtesy of the Palestine Poster Project Archives.

“It is a timeless moment,” my mom noted. “We had to wait five years to take this photo.”

As if traveling in time, we were transported to that momentous event.

My parents were each just twenty years old when they met at their university, but they were strong enough to fight for their dream of becoming a family, our family. They had to convince their families to accept their choice at a time when marrying for love was not accepted. Twenty-one years ago, Arab society didn’t recognize love as a reason for marriage—or rather, it considered that love should be a secret between the two lovers only. It was expected that families should participate in choosing a partner, either the bride or the groom, and they should even set conditions on who the partner could be.

My parents insisted on breaking these rules. They chose each other and, after a long series of conflicts, united both families with their love. My eighty-year-old grandma told me the beautiful truth about them: “Palestine taught them to be brave when they take up a vital issue. Be like your parents!”

Shared smiles turned to gentle tears as our collective journey through their wedding photo evoked a profound sense of connection between us. My parents’ words captured the very essence of their relationship. They happily shared stories about the obstacles that delayed their engagement for five years.

“Challenges are evidence for true love,” my mother said proudly as she explained that they couldn’t find space in the Palestinian refugee camp for a new house. They spent tough years with limited finances, struggling desperately to afford a home outside the camp. My dad didn’t find a job for two years, but then finally was hired by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) school. This reflects another nightmare for Palestinians in Lebanon: they are subject to restrictions on employment and often require work permits that can be difficult to obtain, in order to work as a lawyer or a journalist. This is in addition to limited access to job opportunities for everyone due to the serious economic situation in Lebanon.

My mother also found work as an English teacher in an UNRWA school, and she and my father finally saved up enough money. They rented the house that I was born in, which had to be registered in the name of a Lebanese owner.

The most significant lesson I’ve learned from my mother’s eyes, which are bright when she talks about their story, is that love can really motivate us to persevere through difficulties. “It is the sense of purpose that pushes us. Our families lived through one Nakba. If your dad and I were not together now, it would be like a second catastrophe for me.”

Their happiness was more than a fleeting emotion; it became the foundation of the life they built together. As they described the tender moments leading to their wedding ceremony, I silently realized that we were embarking on a journey into their past together.

My dad enjoyed telling us about the pre-wedding customs. Firstly, he told us about zaffa, a party involving the groom, his family, and friends where they dance and sing in the streets of the camp, accompanied by traditional songs like “Ya Zarifa Altol.”

In keeping with Palestinian traditions, my father and his male relatives dressed in typical Palestinian attire including a thobe, or long embroidered robe, and kuffiyeh, a traditional scarf.

The story becomes more beautiful when it comes to Palestinian food at weddings. It is not only about traditional dishes like maqluba and mansaf, but also the warm atmosphere created as family members and friends share in cooking and serving.

Like the wedding preparation for men, Palestinian weddings are rich in special traditions for women, also. The henna night, a pre-wedding party for women, was the most meaningful event for my mom. The bride and her friends gathered to apply henna designs on their hands and feet. My mother’s henna party was full of dance and Palestinian sweets like tamreyya and namoura that my grandmother prepared. She is proud of the delicious sweets she served!

Concerning the wedding dress, my mother’s old photo show that hers had intricate embroidery. The most beautiful surprise about this dress was that it was embroidered with threads that came from Yafa (Jaffa). These threads show that we are always connected to Palestine. Even two generations after the Nakba, my grandmother kept the threads to make my mother’s dress. My sister and I can only wish to have a wedding dress like my mother’s!

Loving touches are also present in the gifts that guests bring to the bride, especially jewelry. My mom still keeps most of her gifts with my father’s kuffiyeh, as the guardians of their happiness and blessings.

The pre-wedding rituals ended with the large wedding ceremony at which bride and groom meet. “As I stood beside your beloved mom, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us in a bubble of shared emotions,” my dad said happily.

It was the unforgettable night where they had their first dance together. As they held each other and moved with the music, their love story was beautifully choreographed. It was a chapter that began with a dance but unfolded into a lifetime of challenges and mainly love.

Their final party was held in a large venue, as was expected for them because of the huge number of relatives they have. My grandfather always says that there were not enough chairs for everyone to sit. Dabkeh, the traditional Palestinian dance, still takes center stage at weddings, even Palestinian weddings in Lebanon. This is evidence that the traditional customs and meaningful rituals rooted in Palestinian culture can cross boundaries.

As I looked with my parents at their wedding photo and traveled back to the past with them, the weight of my exhaustion melted away. The world’s demands faded into the background. I could exhale because I had learned that Palestine is still alive in customs that showcase heritage and maintain a sense of cultural identity. The love of family is the unbreakable thread that weaves together our most cherished memories and supports us through every chapter of our life as Palestinians in Lebanon.

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Along with other Palestinian writers, Jana works with WANN mentor David Heap.

Here’s David on how he became involved with We Are Not Numbers.

Note: This biographical statement was written before the events of Oct. 2023, as was Jana’s story.

When a small group of volunteers founded the Canadian Boat to Gaza campaign in 2010, we knew that Palestinians in Gaza face major obstacles to being heard internationally. Very few international media pick up Palestinian voices when discussing the Israeli occupation of Palestine in general, and the blockade of Gaza in particular. As part of the international Freedom Flotilla Coalition, we put ourselves and our boats on the line to challenge the Israeli naval blockade of Gaza. As important, we prioritized amplifying Palestinian voices in international forums.

When I was finally able to reach Gaza in 2012, as part of an academic delegation, my colleagues and I were struck by the eloquence of the Palestinian students we met at Gaza universities. They had so much to tell us – and the world – about everything from their lives under the Israeli blockade to their unique perspectives on world issues. We owed it to them to get their voices heard. When I learned about We Are Not Numbers, I saw this as an opportunity to put my writing and editing skills to work, helping break the media blockade against Gaza voices. The mentoring process has been mutually enriching: I learn about Palestinian lives in Gaza while they learn about writing and story-telling.

Most of the mentoring I have done with young writers from We Are Not Numbers has involved young Palestinians in Gaza. But recently I was asked to mentor a diaspora Palestinian with her story about her family. This helped me realize that while the media blockade is most severe against Palestinians in Gaza, in fact all Palestinian voices suffer internationally from various degrees of erasure.

So when WANN began its project this year with Palestinians in Lebanon, I was pleased to mentor Jana Alhanafi's story about how family wedding traditions help keep Palestinian traditions alive across the generations. And while I played no role in mentoring it, I was fascinated to read Samer Maysar Manaa's account of stateless "Palestinian non-IDs" in Lebanon.

At the Freedom Flotilla, our work remains focused on challenging the illegal and inhumane sea blockade of Gaza. More broadly, we continue to advocate for freedom of movement for all Palestinians, wherever they live, including the right of return to 1948 Palestine. At the same time, we are committed to helping break the media blockade against Palestine. Our ongoing collaborations with We Are Not Numbers fits into both of these efforts.

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David Heap is an Associate Professor of French and Linguistics (affiliated with Gender,Sexuality and Women's Studies) at the University of Western Ontario, Canada. He helped found the Canadian Boat to Gaza campaign in 2010.

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