By Razia Parveen
In examining the powerful narratives of Susan Abulhawa’s Mornings in Jenin and the anthology We Are Not Numbers, edited by Ahmed Alnouq and Pam Bailey, one is drawn into the profound emotional landscape of Palestinian experiences under occupation. Both works, though distinct in their narrative styles and temporal contexts, serve as vital historical records that illuminate the struggles, resilience, and humanity of Palestinians across generations. Mornings in Jenin intricately weaves a fictional tale of love and loss against the backdrop of historical upheaval, while We Are Not Numbers presents raw, contemporary voices of Gazan youth, reflecting the ongoing hardships they endure. Together, these texts not only highlight the enduring impacts of military occupation but also challenge readers to confront the complexities of identity, belonging, and the universal quest for justice.
Mornings in Jenin, written by Susan Abulhawa, is not merely a novel; it is a poignant testament to the enduring human spirit in the face of relentless adversity. Abulhawa’s narrative intricately weaves the lives of multiple generations, encapsulating the emotional turmoil and resilience of a family caught in the throes of conflict. The author’s evocative prose immerses readers in the landscape of Palestine, allowing them to feel the weight of loss and the flicker of hope through the characters’ experiences. The love story of Amal and Majid serves as a microcosm of the larger struggle, illustrating how love can flourish even in the bleakest of circumstances. Their relationship, marked by an almost ethereal connection, echoes the timeless romance of classic literature, yet is grounded in the harsh realities of war.
The novel spans from 1948 to the early 2000s, a period rife with historical significance, and the narrative does not shy away from portraying the brutalities of military occupation. Through the lens of familial ties, Abulhawa highlights the collective trauma experienced by Palestinians, emphasising how the past continues to shape their present. The characters’ experiences resonate deeply with readers, prompting a reflection on our shared humanity and the urgent need for compassion in a world marked by division.
Mornings in Jenin is a profoundly impactful novel that lingers in your thoughts, weaving its heartbreaking truths into the very fabric of your consciousness long after you’ve turned the final page. Susan Abulhawa crafts a narrative that immerses readers in the intricate and tumultuous history of the Middle East, shedding light on the multifaceted complexities of the current situation with haunting precision.
This is a work which chronicles the life of a single Palestinian village and its inhabitants, revealing their struggles and triumphs through the eyes of various generations. Abulhawa’s storytelling is imbued with poetic eloquence, rendering the narrative both heartbreaking and beautiful, often bringing tears to the reader’s eyes. We journey through the harsh realities of life under military occupation, spanning from 1948 to 2000, in a tale that transcends borders—connecting the Middle East to America and allowing readers to engage deeply with the human experiences that lie at the core of this profound and unforgettable work.
The emotional depth of Abulhawa’s writing takes you on an unforgettable rollercoaster ride, as she masterfully intertwines moments of profound sorrow with fleeting glimpses of joy. Her prose compels us to confront the layers of our shared humanity, urging us to recognize our vulnerabilities and the urgent need for compassion in a world fraught with division and conflict.
At the heart of this intricate tale lies a rich tapestry of familial connections, spanning generations from grandmother to granddaughter and from grandfather to father and granddaughter. The narrative is populated with a myriad of family friends, relatives, and respected village elders, each enriching the story with their unique perspectives and experiences.
Central to the novel is the poignant love story of Amal and Majid, a connection that echoes the timeless romance of Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester. Their bond, marked by deep longing and emotional intensity, is beautifully illustrated through Abulhawa’s eloquent prose. As Amal grapples with her feelings, she reflects on the intimate connection that seems to tether them together, similar to Jane’s haunting words about a spiritual string tying her to Rochester:
As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string to you. – Jane Eyre
A small moon shadowed smile stretched from his lips all the way to my heart – Mornings in Jenin
Similar metaphors are made in both novels set in different worlds and times – one is a beloved romantic English Victorian novel and the other is written years later and set in the Middle East.
The love affair that blossoms against a backdrop filled with tragedy and loss is tender yet fierce — an enduring flame that persists even amid despair. Through Amal and Majid’s relationship, we witness the resilience of love amidst the chaos of war and heartbreak.
One of the main plots revolves around the story of two brothers, each from different backgrounds. One is a Palestinian, and the other is an Israeli soldier named David. The story unfolds during the tumultuous events of 1948, a year marked by conflict and upheaval. During a chaotic stampede, a high-ranking Israeli soldier named Moshe rescues a baby named Ismael from his Bedouin mother. Moshe gives him to his own wife, who is barren. She names the baby David and raises him with love and kindness.
In contrast, We Are Not Numbers, edited by Ahmed Alnouq and Pam Bailey upto November 2024, captures the contemporary voices of Gazan youth, providing a raw and unfiltered glimpse into their daily lives under occupation. This anthology serves as a poignant reminder of the individual stories that often get lost in the broader narrative of conflict. Each vignette, such as Anas Jnena’s powerful reflection on the mundanity of life juxtaposed with the weight of grief, transforms the abstract concept of occupation into deeply personal accounts of love, loss, and resilience. Jnena’s desire for the world to see Gaza as a place of life—filled with laughter, beauty, and humanity—challenges the often one-dimensional portrayals that dominate media narratives.
One of the voices is that from Anas Jnena in I want the world to know – “I want the world to know that Gaza is all about life – just like any other place in the world. I want the world to know that Gaza is not the devastated, dusty, mouldy place too often shown on the news. I want the world to know that Palestinians are neither victims nor heroes. Just like any other people, we wake up every day to go to school or work, we laugh when we hear a funny joke and cry when we have a toothache. We love the smell of the sea and the colours of the sky, especially at sunset, and we hate seeing the dentist even when we know we should. Furthermore, in a vignette entitled ‘why Jello doesn’t taste the same anymore’ We hear about the significance of graveyards:
Most people do not visit graveyards frequently. When you do visit, you find a few people scattered around, everyone there for a different reason: a mother still mourning for her son; an orphan lying beside her parents’ graves with a single flower and a tear in her eye; a widow holding her son’s hand and sitting near her martyred husband’s grave, updating him on her mother-in-law’s injustice; an old man watering the plants on his wife’s resting place.
Moreover, the anthology poignantly addresses the psychological scars left by violence. The vignette discussing graveyards serves not only as a metaphor for loss but also as a stark reminder of the fragility of life in conflict zones. The emotional impact of the statement about not being able to enjoy Jello again after losing friends encapsulates the profound sense of loss that permeates the lives of those in Gaza.
Jnena tells us about how he and his friends would gather around a dear friends grave and eat a bowl of Jello. At the end, the voice concludes by saying “I haven’t visited there since my best four friends were killed. And I will never enjoy Jello again.” These are the moving final words of this narrative, which reference the title of the piece.
This narrative transforms into a powerful compilation of voices that have been silenced, suppressed, or attempted to be erased from the collective memory of the world. It draws a parallel to the stories of an aging African community, passionately striving to reclaim and reassert their narratives, which have been neglected or forgotten over time. The collection represents a chorus of Palestinian voices echoing a vital message: ‘don’t forget about me.’ This emphasizes the importance of remembrance, recognition, and the voices of marginalized overlooked communities in the broader societal context.
Another voice laments the scarcity of books:
In Gaza, we have no free library where people can borrow books. We have two bookstores, but it’s beyond my budget to buy as many books as this avid reader could consume… my university has a library, but the books it holds are outdated. You can hardly find a book by William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, or Agatha Christie… This voice concludes by reminding us that, in fact, in the summer of 2014 — during that miserable time of shelling, bombardment, and death – I read day and night. (p40)
Another narrative informs us that:
….more than 800,000 Palestinians have been incarcerated by the Israeli government since 1967. That’s 25 per cent of the Palestinian people…. It is now 2016 there are still more than 7,000 Palestinians held hostage in Israel’s prisons, many for absurd sentences for small acts some who have never even stood trial. No one knows when they will be free. (p65)
The statistics provided by these voices reveal that the current situation did not occur in a vacuum, indicating that it was influenced by various underlying factors and circumstances.
I will now compare the 2010 Mornings in Jenin with the 2025 book We Are Not Numbers, which documents the stories of Palestinians describing life under occupation. In this book, young Gazans share their experiences of living under military occupation, highlighting the daily struggles and hardships they face. What is particularly heartbreaking is that Abulhwaha told us the same stories 15 years ago in Mornings in Jenin, about the conditions since 1948. These narratives, as distressing as they are, serve as a vital historical record of the severe injustices they endure every day, including difficulties such as accessing employment, healthcare, and education.
To briefly revisit Mornings in Jenin, first published in 2010, it is a lyrically powerful novel that vividly recounts the events in Palestine during 1948. It portrays the suffering of a resilient people caught under the control of a more dominant and oppressive group. The novel weaves a compelling tale of love, loss, and heartbreak that spans four generations of a family, illustrating the deep emotional and cultural scars left by such turbulent times. Amidst the chaos and despair, there are tender moments, such as a father reciting poetry to his children each night, offering a glimpse of hope and tenderness amid hardship. As the son Yousef, lies in an Israeli prison, he recalls his father’s loving ways and the poetry of Rumi, his father used to read aloud to him as a child:
How does a part of the world leave the world?
How can wetness leave water?…
What hurts you blesses you?…
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest.
I can explain this, but it would break
the glass cover on your heart,
and theres no fixing that.
Are these enough words,
or shall I squeeze more juice from this?
(p104)
With WANN, we hear the voices of today’s generation sharing stories filled with profound sadness and a sense of injustice. Alnouq and Bailey have curated compelling narratives that evoke strong emotional responses, illustrating the harsh realities of everyday injustices. In a piece titled Love Letter to Gaza, the voice states that:
I have lived through three wars, about a dozen invasions and nine years of siege. I also have waited through God knows how many hours for the electricity to comeback on so I can finally get online, or iron tomorrows outfit and hijab, or watch the TV show I’m waiting for. Despite it all, I still love it.
Her love for the land is unwavering despite all the hardships she faces on a daily basis. This echoes the lives of the characters displaced in Mornings in Jenin. Both books speak of lives interrupted and dreams and ambitions thwarted with violence and bloodshed. Whereas as one deals with characters grounded in their reality the other narrates the continuing displacement surrounded by the stink of death.
Both books serve as historical documents filled with characters who witness unimaginative cruelty carried out by one group of humans to another band of humans. Where Mornings in Jenin wraps the horror in a narrative WANN is a compilation of voices from inside Gaza.
Both books serve as vital historical records, highlighting the long-standing injustices faced by Palestinians. They depict a continuum of suffering and resilience, where the narratives of the past and present intertwine. In a world where stories often go unheard, these authors give voice to those who have been silenced, challenging readers to confront the uncomfortable truths about humanity’s capacity for both cruelty and compassion. The narratives compel us to acknowledge the enduring impact of occupation and the necessity of understanding the human experiences that lie at the heart of these stories. Through their eloquent storytelling, Abulhawa and the contributors to We Are Not Numbers illuminate the complexities of identity, belonging, and the indomitable spirit of a people yearning for peace and justice.
