While living abroad in Saudi Arabia, my parents always planned to return to Palestine, the country where we had family and roots. As for me, I didn’t love the idea of going to Gaza, a place that is always in a state of conflict and war.
But then the timeline sped up. The Saudi government started to impose residence fees on foreigners, per person on a monthly basis. At first, it was a reasonable amount, but it increased until it reached 400 riyals (about $100). And we’re a family of seven. It didn’t stop there, however. Living in general became very expensive: water, electricity, food, and rent. People started drowning financially.
My parents made the decision to return to Gaza a year before we would actually depart. This seemed like a long time, so my siblings and I were not that concerned. Yet time flew by quickly, and soon it was time to leave. I couldn’t stop thinking about the changes ahead and the future that I would have to embrace.
Leaving Saudi Arabia
My twin sister and I were 17 years old and juniors in high school. Although we had moved a lot, it was difficult to leave behind the people and places that held so many of our memories and that we considered our home.
Our house was a big mess — boxes all over the place, tape, bags, all our stuff. The shipping company arrived and put everything in order. And that was our first goodbye: we hoped that our belongings would arrive safe and sound.
The second goodbye was on the last day of school. My friends told me that Raghd, my twin sister, was crying in the school office. I wondered how she had gotten herself in trouble, since she is a model student. I went there and saw her crying while the teacher talked to her. Without thinking, I snapped at her to stop crying like a baby and tell me what happened.
The teacher interrupted me, saying that I was in trouble too, as someone had witnessed us doing something bad. As the so-called witness was being fetched, the door opened slowly and loud sounds came from behind. Suddenly all my friends came rushing toward Raghd and me, hugging us and yelling, “Surprise!” My eyes held back tears and I felt a deep sadness in my heart, along with gratitude for these friends. I started thinking about the fact that I would never see them people again.
Our final goodbye was when we actually left Saudi Arabia and all the precious memories we made there.
Welcome to Gaza
A huge gateway sign, “Welcome to Gaza,” greeted us when we arrived. The reality of our move suddenly hit me.
Unfortunately, the dark side of the year soon started. Criticism was directed at me, my twin sister Raghd, and my parents. We had come here during our last (and most important) year of high school, Tawjihi, or senior year. Apparently, the Saudi curriculum was considered child’s play, so people were convinced that we would fail. Even though it was still summer vacation, my parents believed we needed private tutoring if we were going to do well in the final exam, and that’s how we spent our summer. Then school started and the battle for our reputation and future began, bringing tension and exhaustion.
I decided to make the most of this new experience. I would be calm, waking up to the sound of birds and fresh air. I was excited to meet new people and get to see how schools work here in Gaza, though I wasn’t a big fan of the white-scarved school uniform.
This year gave me a handful of first-time experiences. One of them was simply walking to school, because in Saudi Arabia, it’s unusual to see a girl walking in the street — we either went to school by car or by bus. Each morning I would walk on the main street with the sun rising on one side, along with hundreds of students with bags on their backs, giggling along the way. Another interesting experience was wearing the hijab throughout the day, since there were male teachers in the school in Gaza, whereas in Saudi Arabia, female students always had female teachers.
A negative experience would definitely be the hot summers without fans or air conditioners, along with the dripping water through the ceiling in the winter. And let’s not forget the feeling of going back in time when I had to write on the board with chalk (in Riyadh, our school had whiteboards and magic markers).
Tawjihi: The year of judgment
Tawjihi is a big thing in Gaza. It is considered the year that separates a young person from adult life, the year that a test will determine his or her future. My sister and I, and our whole family, felt psychological pressure from everywhere. During the study period, students are actually not allowed to leave the house, even for shopping, playing, or just walking around. If others see you doing something other than studying, they actually approach you and your parents and start talking about how this will affect your future. All eyes were on us, and we became known as the Saudi Twins.
When the school year ended, there were still two months left before the exams. Yet I hadn’t started studying. Somehow, I felt carefree and wasn’t worried. But one night, I remember waking up in the middle of the night to drink a cup of water and noticing my twin sister awake, memorizing. The next day my mom told me that she had high hopes about us passing the exams, no matter what other people said about us.
And that was when I woke up to the reality of the upcoming exams and started realizing that I just had to do it. I started studying non-stop: no going out, no wasting time, no nothing.
Finally, it was Tawjihi time.
As I looked at the questions on the exam, I knew some of the answers and worked away at them. Unexpectedly, one of the top students in the class started crying and whining about how difficult the exam was. After we all finished, I went back home and tried to think about the test again, but all the questions were erased from my memory.
Summer vacation started, but people continued to be stressed as they waited for the results of the Tawjihi exams, two weeks away.
At last, the day came. Typically, the families of those who pass celebrate as if it were a wedding. Sweets are served and people come to congratulate the graduates with money and presents. What my parents feared was the possibility that one of us might pass while the other might fail. Would they still celebrate if one passed but not the other?
The phone rang and we got the news that Raghd passed. I was happy for her, but all of a sudden the thought of failing hit me. “Did I really fail?” I asked myself.
At that moment, my mom ran to me shouting, “You passed!” My mind went blank and I didn’t know how to react at the moment. But I’m very thankful to my parents for all their support, love, and patience. I’m also very grateful to those who were by my side throughout this stressful but exciting experience.