Sarah’s desk. Photo provided by Sarah

Sarah M,* a 19-year-old girl from Jabalia in northern Gaza, once dreamed of becoming a nurse—a source of healing for those in pain. She lived a peaceful life with her parents, siblings, and extended family. Each morning, she would wake up early, attend school, and share her ambitions with her friends.

“I used to sit in a circle with my friends and tell them, ‘I will work hard at my Tawjihi (high school exams), get excellent marks, and study nursing,’” Sarah recalled. “Whenever I mentioned nursing, my friends would ask why I was so determined. I always answered with confidence: because I can’t bear to see people suffer.”

But on the morning of October 7, 2023, as she was preparing to go to school and reunite with her friends and teachers, the sound of missiles shattered that routine.

In the following days, Sarah and her family were displaced. In mid-October, they fled south to Khan Younis to stay with her aunt. But when a neighboring home was bombed, they made a difficult decision to return to the north. “When that house next to my aunt’s was struck, we decided to go back to Jabalia. We chose to stay in our homeland. If we were going to die, we would die where we were raised.”

Then came December 2023. Their home in Jabalia was bombed around 2 p.m. One of the explosions fractured Sarah’s spine, leaving her paralyzed and severely burned. Her younger brother Ahmed, only 6 years old, was martyred.

“I was taken to the hospital alone, feeling lost and terrified. My mother, father, siblings—no one was with me,” she said. Sarah cried out in pain, searching for her family. A medic told her they were safe. “That brought me a small sense of peace,” she said, “but I still had doubts—were they really okay?”

The next day, her parents visited. “I could see sorrow in my mother’s eyes. I asked her about my siblings. She said they were fine. But when I asked about Ahmed, her eyes filled with tears.” That’s when Sarah knew the truth. “I screamed and begged her to tell me that Ahmed was alive. My screams only worsened my pain.”

Her recovery journey began in Al-Shifa Hospital, where she spent three long, painful months. Despite everything, she remained resilient. “I built friendships with other patients, doctors, and nurses. It felt like the only place where healing was still possible.” But on March 18, 2024, the Israeli military invaded Al-Shifa for the second time. At dawn, the hospital shook with the sounds of tanks and missiles. “The fear was overwhelming. I knew the occupation forces were near,” she said.

There was a severe shortage of food and water. For a full week, Sarah ate nothing and had no access to clean water. “I thought I would die of hunger and thirst.”

The medical system collapsed. Treatments stopped. Sarah’s health rapidly deteriorated. “Before the invasion, I was stable. I felt close to recovery—I believed I might walk again. I would pray to Allah to let me walk, to return to school. But during the 15 days of siege, her wounds became infected. “I saw worms crawling out of my wounds. The smell of decay filled the air.”

When the siege ended, Sarah was transferred to Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahia to continue treatment.

Then, in February 2025, hope returned. She was approved for medical evacuation to Egypt. “When my father told me I was going to Egypt for treatment, I felt like my life would change. I believed I would survive this war and walk again.”

She crossed the Rafah border and began her healing journey in an Egyptian hospital. “I wished I could study, attend private lessons, and take my final exams,” Sarah said. But though her condition improved, she couldn’t return to school or join any educational programs.

In July, displaced Palestinian students in Egypt were allowed to sit for their exams. According to the Egyptian Ministry of Education, around 800 students from the Gaza Strip were included—but not Sarah. Her injuries had taken that opportunity away, too.

When she found out her fellow students would be able to take their exams, she felt a deep sense of hopelessness. “I wished I could’ve taken my Tawjihi exams, entered university, and studied nursing,” she said. “I dreamed of helping people. That was all I ever wanted. I kept asking myself why was I the one denied my right to continue my education?”

Though the war has stolen Sarah’s home, her little brother, her health, and even her seat in the exam hall, she still clings to a fragile thread of hope.

“Maybe I will never become the nurse I dreamed of,” she says, “but I will keep healing others with my words, my smile, and my belief that recovery is possible.”

*Sarah has requested that her last name be withheld for her personal security.