we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Once a symbol of academic excellence and a beacon of hope, the Islamic University has become a center of refuge.
The Islamic University of Gaza, before its structures were destroyed by Israel. Photo from the university website
In November 2023, my home was bombed and completely destroyed. My belongings and books were scattered, mixed with the rubble of my house and my neighbors’ houses. Everything was covered in debris and rain.
I saw my university books lying on the ground. I picked them up, brushed off the dust and rubble, and said to myself:
“Even if my home and my books are destroyed, my determination will never be. I will continue my studies, and I will celebrate my graduation at my shattered university and inside my demolished home.”
Only one month earlier, while displaced and living at my aunt’s house, I had heard the heartbreaking news that the Islamic University had been destroyed. I was overwhelmed with sorrow.
Memories of the university flooded my mind—the graduation halls where, every semester, I was honored as a top student with distinction, the corridors where I rushed to class with books in hand, and the quiet moments I spent in the library, surrounded by shelves of knowledge.
In those moments, I had always felt as though I was touching the sky, fulfilling the dreams I had held since the very first day I entered the Islamic University.
From when I was a small child, I had always wanted to attend this university. My father, a proud alumnus of the Islamic University, often spoke of its role in shaping leaders and dreamers. Our home was filled with books, and the idea of higher education was woven into my upbringing. I remember visiting the campus as a child: the towering palm trees lining the walkways, and the students laughing in the courtyards.
I remembered when I finished high school with a 95% score. My father asked me, “Which university do you wish to attend?”
With a wide smile and a heart full of joy, I replied, “I want to study at the Islamic University. It’s been my childhood dream.”
My father smiled and said, “Tomorrow, I will take you and your sister, Somaya, to register.”
The next day, I walked among the towering, majestic buildings of the university, visited the cafeteria where the delicious aroma of fresh bread baked with olive oil and thyme filled the air. I registered my information at the admissions office—I had officially become a student of the Islamic University. I envisioned myself studying there every day, having breakfast in the cafeteria, browsing the university’s books, and sitting in the vast university library.
My happy student days. Photo: Ohood Nassar
I studied at the Islamic University for nearly three years before the war interrupted my education. Those days were some of the most beautiful of my life. Never once did I imagine that one day it would be destroyed, or that I would be deprived of continuing my education there.
When I heard of the university’s destruction, it was a devastating blow. Yet, deep inside, I kept telling myself: It will be rebuilt. We are a people who do not surrender. Our determination cannot be broken.
In May 2024, we were ordered to evacuate the entire north of the country. I was displaced again, this time to western Gaza. When I arrived, I found ruins everywhere. I even saw my favorite seat in the university library where I used to study for hours—a red velvet chair with gold embroidery. It was now shattered into pieces. It felt as if I was losing my home all over again, but this time, it was my beloved university.
Later, during a temporary ceasefire at the end of January 2025, I visited the Islamic University again. It had transformed into rows upon rows of makeshift tents, sheltering thousands of displaced families who had lost their homes and memories.
What hurt me the most was seeing people tear pages from university textbooks to use as fuel for cooking fires. With no gas available, they had no other means to prepare food. Even though my heart ached to see precious books being burned, I could not blame the people. They were simply doing whatever they could to survive.
As I walked through the tents, I remembered something that Dr. Mahmoud Al-Rantisi, one of my professors from an education course in 2022, once told us:
“When the Islamic University was first established, it was nothing more than small tents where students studied. And look where we reached—a magnificent university graduating thousands of students every year.”
He spoke with such pride, for he was among the first professors to have graduated from the university himself.
While reflecting on his words, I saw a familiar face—Aya, a fellow student I had met during a Qur’an studies course in my first year. Aya was known for her diligence. I remembered how, during the 2021 Excellence Ceremony, she told me of her dream: to graduate with distinction and walk proudly across the university stage, cap in hand.
Aya once had a beautiful home filled with photographs, books, and laughter. But it, too, had been destroyed. Now, Aya and her family were living inside a tent, taking shelter on the grounds of the very university that had once been her place of learning and hope. Instead of celebrating her graduation, Aya was now struggling to survive, using the university courtyard to light fires just to cook a simple meal.
Aya’s story is not the only one.
Thousands of students have been stripped of their right to graduate. For them, the Islamic University—once a symbol of academic excellence—has become a center of refuge.
The transformation of the university back to tents—not as a humble beginning filled with hope, but as shelters for survival—is a potent and painful symbol of all that has happened to Gaza. The tents of today stand not as foundations of growth but as markers of loss. And yet, in these very tents, the spirit of determination still flickers. Just as it did when the university first began, we still believe in rebuilding, in rising again.
Nothing can break my spirit, nor can anything weaken my resolve to achieve my dreams, no matter how harsh the times may become. I will return. I will study again. And I will graduate—not just for myself, but for every student who dreamed beside me.
