we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Students whose education has been cut short by the war search for a purpose as their world collapses around them.
Cousins Yazan, Suhaib, and Ihab Darwish. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish
Tawjihi is a significant turning point in the life of every young Palestinian. It is not only their final year of high school, it is the final exam that can determine the trajectory of their lives. Students strive to do their best because they know that, along with their GPA, the results of this exam will determine the university they will attend and the field of study they will pursue.
Tawjihi brings a special excitement that both students and their families feel. When I entered my Tawjihi year, my family began treating me as if I were their only son. They would stay awake late to make sure I had a quiet and comfortable space to study, and my mother would prepare my favorite meals every day. My siblings, too, kept the house unusually quiet and even spoke about me with pride to relatives, saying things like, “Here’s our future doctor.”
Along with this excitement and special treatment, there was pressure to do well in the test and the anxiety that such pressure creates. The year usually ends with family unity and celebration as the results of the test are announced online.
In August 2023, I was full of hope for the future as I approached my Tawjihi year. I dreamed of a high GPA, being admitted to a prestigious university abroad, and then going to medical school to achieve my dream of becoming a doctor.
At the start of the school year, my day would begin with a family breakfast of cheese on toast (which I love) and a cup of tea lovingly prepared by my mother. Afterwards I would walk to school, watching the eagerness on the children’s faces to learn and laugh. Being late was the only thing I was afraid of.
Manaqeesh prepared by the mother of Yasser Al-Hour. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish
After school, I would sometimes walk with Yasser Al-Hour, my best friend and desk mate, to his house. His mother would make us her za’atar manakeesh—the beloved Palestinian flatbread topped with a fragrant mix of thyme, sumac, and olive oil.
Later I would head to an air-conditioned, privately-run educational center with Yazan, Suhaib, and Ihab Darwish—the cousins had been my best friends since elementary school. We sat in comfortable chairs and received private tutoring in mathematics. In the evening we would get together at each other’s homes to study. There were days when I saw these friends more than I saw my own family.
Then the genocidal war began. Our hopes were destroyed. Our schools and universities became our shelters. We ran out of things to burn to in order to cook so we burned some of our books.
We had always looked to books and the knowledge they contained as our most effective weapons against the occupation. Now we needed them as fuel to cook our food and fill our empty stomachs.
Yasser’s home was heavily damaged. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish
My friend Yasser’s home, the place we used to escape to after school, was reduced to rubble. My biggest loss came on November 19, 2023, when Yazan, Suhaib, and Ihab, were martyred. Their murders left me in shock. I began to lose sight of who I was and who I had dreamt of becoming. It felt as though the world had abandoned us.
But giving up is not an option for Gazans. My journey to prepare for the final exams now included trying to balance the hardships of war with the duties of studying for Tawjihi. My family took in six families whose homes had been destroyed and it became incredibly difficult to find a quiet place to study.
Each night after everyone fell asleep, the wailing of warplanes and the bursts of gunfire became my study companions. With eyes burning from the dim light, I clung to the books we hadn’t burned, hoping they could shield me from the chaos outside.
The situation worsened when we were forced to flee our home and live in a tent in Rafah. I could bring only the bare necessities—some clothes and bedding. I left behind not just my belongings but also my dream of graduating from high school and continuing my educational journey at a prestigious university.
Studying in the tent. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish
All I thought about was how I could avoid being killed in a random Israeli airstrike so I could pursue my dream. Because I no longer had a school to attend, I searched for people who could tutor me in subjects like math and physics.
While I didn’t find tutors, I did find a makeshift school that had sprung up in our refugee camp. Staffed by volunteers, the school had no comfortable chairs; we sat on the ground. There was no air-conditioning; our classroom was a humid and scorching tent.
But in this tent was what I needed. Studying here brought me back, even if just briefly, to the academic environment I craved. Learning alongside other students, who were also trying to study amidst the horror, helped me understand that I was not alone.
Students gather in a makeshift school. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish
Had Gaza not been under constant attack, the excitement of my last year in high school would have peaked on July 29, 2024. Then I would have learned how well I did in my final exams. But instead of gathering with my friends and family around a computer to learn our scores as they were released on the internet, we huddled around a crackling fire, as though we had been thrown back to the Stone Age.
The disappointment my friends and I felt that day remains etched in my memory. I could see the sorrow and frustration carved into their faces. It felt as though the sacrifices we had made, the effort we had exerted despite relentless bombings, hunger, and exhaustion had amounted to nothing. It was almost unbearable.
The fate of my generation, the generation of Gazans born in 2006, remains uncertain. As our world collapses, we exist in a space too small to hold our dreams. My dream was to study medicine and become a doctor. My friend Ihab, who was killed early on in the war, wanted to study computer science and become a programmer. Yazan’s dream was to travel the world. Instead, the world watched his death in silence.
Other friends dreamed about living peacefully with their families. Instead of pursuing our dreams, we spend our days trying to avoid being killed by a random bomb, missile, drone strike, or sniper. Every day our dreams slip further out of reach.
Students try to continue their studies in a makeshift tent. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish
What pains me most is that my generation is not able to get the education we need to join the ranks of professionals who risk their lives every day for the people of Gaza. Until that changes, we can’t be the doctors battling against time and a lack of resources to save patients’ lives. We can’t be the journalists risking their lives to document the crimes of the occupation. We can’t be the engineers overcoming immense challenges to keep Gaza connected to the world—without them, you would not be able to read these words.
I still dream of becoming a doctor and helping to rebuild the health system in Gaza. The war has not taken that from me. But it has made me and my generation less hopeful that we will ever be able to realize our dreams. It killed my friend Suhaib, who shared my ambition of becoming a doctor. It destroyed my friend Yasser’s home, shattering his dream of becoming a mechatronics engineer.
I refuse to let these losses define me. I cannot be on the front lines saving lives or documenting history, but I will use my voice to tell our story.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.
