When I first opened Number the Stars, I prepared myself to read another story about another time and another place, far from anything relatable. It tells the story of Annemarie Johansen, a young girl growing up in Copenhagen, Denmark, during Nazi occupation, forced to face the dangers of war during that time. Unexpectedly, as I followed Annemarie’s story through the quiet streets of Nazi-occupied Copenhagen, I began to realize the similarities we both shared. As I read, my stomach twisted with a sickening remembering, as if the words were alluding to my own experiences. Everything felt familiar: Her footsteps through the darkened city, her quick glances at soldiers, the way she moved in fear, careful to avoid any mistake that could endanger her safety. Those small moments of fear deeply touched me, although the severity of our situations drastically varied.

The more I read, the more I could not help remembering a moment from my own life in Syria. I was sitting in the garden with my family at night. The stars were scattered across the sky, and we were all talking quietly, sharing stories and enjoying the calm of nighttime. Then, without warning, a deafening roar shattered the quiet. I looked up, watching the fiery golden sphere descend only a few miles away from us. It sliced through the darkness, and in that instant, everything ordinary---the warmth of my family’s presence, the peace of the night, the rustle of the garden leaves in the breeze---felt paused, as if time itself had stopped. My chest tightened, my heart raced, and a strange stillness engulfed my body. I didn’t understand what was happening or what would come next, but I was overcome with paralyzing fear that would make me shiver simply through remembering. Then, as my stay in Syria continued, I couldn’t help but notice the soldiers everywhere, rifles gripped tightly, faces hardened into frowns, and their very presence a symbol of their merciless control. My mother had warned me to stay silent before we came; of course, she would not dare utter a word here. No one would. The fear clung to me wherever I went, making sure not to let any words slip out, and that my complaints were swallowed. Although Annemarie never witnessed bombing firsthand, she was constantly informed of the airstrikes, conflicts, and danger, and it remained an ongoing fear in her life. On top of that, she had to face the soldiers roaming the streets, staying silent and tense, fearing that a single word might draw their wrath. This became a part of her life, and it became a part of mine.

Although our fears came in different forms, the feelings they summoned were strikingly similar: being aware of how fragile life can be and seeing how quickly an ordinary day can turn to utter chaos. For Annemarie, fear was placed into every interaction, every glance from a soldier, every whispered conversation about the Resistance. It was quiet and sickening. For me, fear was more sudden and loud, yet it left me with the same racing heart, tightened chest, and helpless feeling, and I, too, had to face soldiers in the streets, staying silent, terrified that a single wrong glance might put my family or me in danger. Despite the differences in our experiences, we both went through the same perspective-shaping tragedies, causing us to be alert and careful, measuring our words and actions, knowing that even the smallest error could send our lives tumbling.

Reading Number the Stars helped me see that no matter where or when, fear can shape lives in similar ways. It influences our thoughts, controls our actions, and remains lingering in the back of our heads for the right moment. Even though Annemarie’s life in Copenhagen was very different from mine in Syria, the fear we both felt, the constant need to stay silent and tense around danger, connected our lives in a way I hadn’t expected. Through this story, and through the deep connection I felt with a character whose life was very separate from my own, I realized how powerful fear can be, how it was able to bridge lives across different times and places. And through this shared fear, the distance between our lives disappeared, and her story became part of mine.

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