We Are Not Numbers
Promoting the voices of young writers in Gaza

On 31st July, the international press freedom organisation, The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), reported that at least 111 journalists and media workers had been killed in Gaza since the war began on 7th October 2024.

Our partner, We Are Not Numbers (WANN), has continued throughout the war to provide a platform for young writers and reporters in Gaza to document what is happening there. WANN is particularly keen to pay writers for their stories rather than provide emergency aid and we have provided the funding for them to pay their writers $100 per story.

The Gaza government media office reported that 165 Palestinian journalists have been killed since the war began.

We are also working alongside some of those young writers who have managed to leave Gaza for Cairo. Most are unable to work, attend school, or pursue higher education and many have post-traumatic stress disorders. We are looking to provide therapeutic support to them and several groups in Cairo, where 200,000 Gazans are currently sheltering.

When the conflict started, Faress was training as a nurse at Shifa Hospital in Gaza City. On 15th November, the Israelis forced Faress and his colleagues to leave and travel south to Rafa. He was then able to leave Gaza for Egypt. Below is an article he wrote about his time at Shifa.

Looking out over the ocean from the We Are Not Numbers office in Gaza City — May 2022
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Massacres that never stop
Faress’ story

It was nine o’clock. The sound of bombing shook the place, almost puncturing my eardrums. Several successive and rapid raids occurred, and as an expert in distinguishing the sounds of bombing, I was completely sure that it was a bombing of a residential building.

Of course, this sound would be followed by the arrival of ambulances carrying dozens of injured and martyred children and women. Today was my first day in the primary emergency department, which meant that I had to work without stopping, especially with serious injuries. Actually, this bombing was like a type of greeting of arrival, but a greeting soaked in blood, gunpowder and body parts.

Within moments, the department turned into a battlefield. The injuries did not stop flowing in and the voices of the injured grew louder and louder. We were forced to work with a system of preference, a system that kills me. Whoever has a chance at life is dealt with, and whoever is below that, we cannot help them. We are forced to do this.

“It was nine o’clock. The sound of bombing shook the place, almost puncturing my eardrums. Several successive and rapid raids occurred, and as an expert in distinguishing the sounds of bombing, I was completely sure that it was a bombing of a residential building.”

We have not and would not be able to control all the infections because the number is greater than our capacity and greater than the space of the hospital. An inner voice told me to hold myself together and not be affected by the screams of women and the crying of children because this was just the beginning!

What was coming was going to be bigger than we could control. Perhaps these scenes and events were repeated throughout the day several times.

Questions

I had many questions that I asked myself. When I felt close to exploding, I often asked my colleagues:

“When will the war end?”

“How many of us will die in order to satisfy Israel?”

“How many children will be orphaned and how many women will be widowed?”

“How many lovers will lose their beloved?”

Unfortunately, the answer to all of these questions was the same: “We do not know.”

The days went by in this department and the situation got worse day by day. We had nothing to do but provide our services to the injured and pray for their salvation. I was staying in the hospital with some of my fellow nurses. We slept in one room and sometimes it was not big enough for us. Some of us were lucky enough to find a place to sleep, even if it was on the harsh and cold floor.

I often slept on iron chairs because I had no other choice. After long hours of exhaustion, my body would wither and my bones would feel like those of a seventy-year-old man who had been affected by time and needed some rest. Even our basic needs were not met due to the burden on all the hospital departments, the lack of staff, and the increasing number of injuries.

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