On Monday, more than 100 people were killed in Beit Hanoun and Shijaia. While sitting with my friends Faraj, Abu Aseel, and Wafi in Faraj's place, smoking nargila as we do every night, Faraj keeps turning the dial on the radio, searching the news, trying to find an announcement that might calm him down. The voice on the radio announces that the total number of people killed during the last two weeks is 567. He starts to break this number down according to where they lived, according to their ages, their genders, the method of attack, and so on. A few hours ago a shell decapitated three kids. They were carried to the hospital headless. The radio reporter continues his presentation of the situation. The number of people injured has reached more than 3,300. Some 670 houses were destroyed, and more than 2,000 were partially damaged.
Everything is turned into numbers. The stories are hidden, disguised, lost behind these numbers. Human beings, souls, bodies—all are converted into numbers. While watching the breaking news feed along the bottom of the screen, you can’t help but follow these numbers being updated every minute. Before you can take another breath, the death toll changes. In the first two hours of this attack, they would give the victim’s name and keep it on the screen. Now the victims are just there as digits. The names are gone. From time to time, the total figure leaps suddenly—a meteoric leap—and then the news carries on.
Imagine it. Imagine what it must be like to be converted into a number. That you are not “Atef Abu Saif” any longer; you are “victim No. 568.” You are merely a digit in a much larger number, one that just keeps on growing. Your entire life is reduced to a number. In a crowd of other numbers, the importance of every number disappears, because what is important is the Big Number. Every time the sum increases, the unwritten exclamation mark that accompanies it grows bigger, and the unheard screams that accompany each one grow louder. Journalists like catastrophes; they like numbers, statistics, data. They like the sight of tears and emotions in front of the camera. Destruction is a rich meal for the camera. Their cameras do not observe the fast of Ramadan; they devour and devour.
When a human being is made into a number, his or her story disappears. Every number is a tale, every martyr is a tale, a life that was lost. Or rather, part of that life is lost; the rest tells another tale. The tale after. When a father is killed, or a mother, there are kids left behind who are not heroes, just humans, with their sadness and sorrow; they are kids who lost a father or a mother. There is a tale that is lost, and a tale that has yet to be pursued. The four children that the gunships tore to pieces while playing soccer on the beach were not the number four. They were four stories, four lives. Kawari—the family from Khan Younis that the drone prevented from enjoying a meal on the roof of their small building under the moonlight—they were not just six. They were six infinitely rich, infinitely unknowable stories that came to an end when a missile tore their bodies apart. Six novels that Mahfouz, Dickens, or Márquez could not have written satisfactorily. Novels that would have needed a miracle, a genius, to find the structure and poetry that they deserved. Instead they are tales that have cascaded into the news as numbers. Moments of lust, onslaughts of pain, days of happiness, dreams that were postponed, looks, glances, feelings, secrets … every number is a world in itself.
I do not want to be a number, to be a piece in the news, a name mentioned by a beautiful TV anchor waiting impatiently to finish reading news from Gaza. I do not want to be a small number in a large one, a part of the data. I do not want to be an image among thousands of images that the activists and sympathizers share on Twitter or post on Facebook, rained down on with likes and comments.
My other neighbor, Ahmad, did not want to be a number when he was killed trying to save his family in the Al Nada border area. None of the killed or injured wanted it. And nobody will ever ask to hear the stories behind these numbers, either. Nobody will uncover the beauty of the lives they led—the beauty that vanishes with every attack, disappears behind this thick, ugly curtain of counting.
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