
My grandmother once told me a Chinese legend. It was about a man who faced war, catastrophes, and even death itself. These were all brought upon him by his enemies. Yet, he survived. When his grandson asked him how he remained alive, the man simply replied, “An arrow that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I sometimes wonder if, in Gaza, we live by a similar truth: “An airstrike that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
It’s midnight. There’s no electricity, no internet, no water — and no clear future. The sound of Israeli military aircrafts mingle with the Qur’an playing softly on my phone. The faint starlight barely pierces my room where cold air is seeping in. As I sit on the floor, deep in thought, I imagine where I would be if this year had passed peacefully, without war, without the escalation of the conflict.
I meditate on this until I fall asleep.
I dream. I wake up at 7 a.m. in my house in Al-Nuseirat refugee camp, beginning my daily routine. I put on a stylish yet understated outfit — perhaps a black-striped coat with light beige pants. I get into my father’s small black car, which he lets me use now that I have my driver’s license, ready to head to the Islamic University, where I’ve enrolled to study industrial engineering after I graduated from high school with a high GPA.
I drive down Rashid Street, which looks even more beautiful today because it is raining. I am listening to Quds Radio, its familiar morning program, “Jerusalem,” unchanged for years. Then I see it — the biggest, finest, most beautiful sign in the world. Its bold letters read: “Welcome to Gaza.”
I increase my speed, eager to avoid being late for my breakfast date with friends. The cool beach air fills my lungs as I pass by cozy coffee shops; their tempting aromas linger. The weather is perfect. Light rain falls on my windshield. I can’t wait to reach Al-Kholy Bakery, where warm pastries, friends, and steaming tea await.
Traffic slows me down — it’s school drop off time. While stuck, I watch kids heading to their schools. Seeing a child with his mother reminds me of when my mother used to drop me off at Khalid Ibn Al-Waleed School before heading to work. Time seems to pass so quickly, I tell myself as I continue on my way.
I notice a huge building for the first time. Is it new? I’m not sure, but I imagine it belongs to one of those big organizations like Amideast or Horizon or maybe Vision Plus, which provides official training for Microsoft, Cisco, and Adobe. The building’s glass exterior glistens in the soft morning light.
I wish my friends Yaser and Ahmad were here so I could show them this scene of beauty and calm and finally win our debate about whether I will regret staying in Gaza. I would tell them that I don’t regret it. Even though Gaza is a conflict area, it is also a city of love. Gaza has become more beautiful than ever. But both of them are abroad, Yaser studying aerospace engineering, and Ahmad, medicine.
I finally arrive at Al-Kholy Bakery, where my friends Yousef and Hamda are waiting. We are used to having breakfast together before heading to our lectures. They greet me with their familiar look of frustration because I am late. I apologize, blaming the school traffic, and they playfully insist I pay for breakfast as a penalty, which I agree to. We order our usual: four cheese pastries, three thyme pastries, one chocolate croissant, and three hot cups of black tea.
I drive to our usual spot near our university in the Al-Rimal neighborhood and park the car. We sit inside to enjoy our breakfast while listening to the sound of the rain. I notice a young man and a girl walking together, and we begin our favorite guessing game — are they friends, siblings, or something more? As we finish our meal, we agree they must be siblings; they look so much alike.
We enter the university and part ways, each heading to our lectures. In the class I sit in my usual spot, waiting for my math professor. He might be a bit late, but he’s never absent. I chat with my classmates about the last assignment and its solutions. I feel immersed in a calm mind.

But suddenly I’m jolted awake by the sound of an airstrike. My reality crashes in and my dream slips away. It is just before dawn. The rain stops, and the streets are broken. There’s no arms embargo, no ceasefire, no end to the war, no schools, no university left standing. The sound of spy planes fills the sky again. The war is still here. The Israeli checkpoints are still here. And my dreams, like so many others, feel shattered.
I stand on my balcony, tears welling up in my eyes. But I’m not crying for what I’ve lost — I’m crying because I’m still here, still trying to survive. Maybe it’s the frustration of not being able to pursue my education, or maybe it’s the fact that Israeli blockades don’t just separate the south of Gaza from the north — they separate me, and 1.5 million others, from our dreams, from our previous lives, and from our peace. Or maybe it’s because the dream I’ve built in my mind feels so far away, slipping through my fingers.
There are no school buildings, universities, or hospitals, only ruins and rubble. Photos of the Al-Rimal neighborhood sent to me by a friend show devastation. Gaza is now a city of rubble.
Still, I believe that the streets and schools will rise again. My people’s determination and beauty is undeniable — like the men who restored the façade of Al-Shifa Hospital while bombs fell, those who reopened a coffee shop in North Gaza with a modern design after it was closed for 300 days, and the small child in our neighborhood studying in a tent despite the scorching heat, determined to learn to read and write.
I know Gaza will survive. Its people are not born to die but to live.
I remember my grandmother’s words: “An airstrike that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I hold on to that. This year, no matter how many airstrikes I have to endure, I will keep going! I may not know how or where my future will unfold. I might even die before completing high school or pursuing my dream academic major. I may never hear the next airstrike, only feel its heat and explosion. But no matter what, I will continue my educational journey — whether here in Gaza or somewhere beyond the darkness, because like Gaza, death, misery, and destruction do not define me. And I am certain — Gaza will rise, and so will I.