My first day of work at the hospital. Photo: Isa Hamdona

A young man from Gaza, I was full of pride, optimism, and determination, when I got my acceptance letter to Zagazig University in Egypt in 2021 to study human medicine. I believed that learning anatomy and pharmacology would be the most difficult task ahead. I was mistaken.

My heart pounded not only from the stress of passing tests but also from the fear of losing my family. As I studied through the night, engrossed in medical texts and lecture notes, my family back home was struggling to live as the conflict in Gaza broke out. I dreaded looking at my phone every morning. I was in Egypt attempting to create a future for myself but always afraid that I would wake up to the terrible news that my mother, father, or another loved one had been murdered. I had trouble sleeping at night. I was worried about my studies as well as whether or not my family had eaten that day or whether their house had been attacked.

Finding out that a friend of mine had lost his whole family in the 2024 Khan Younis massacre was one of the most devastating experiences I’ve ever experienced. The earth underneath me appeared to disappear. I had trouble falling asleep. I had trouble concentrating. Whether I would suffer the same fate—losing everything while helplessly distant from home—was all I could worry about.

Amidst this emotional upheaval, I encountered yet another crippling crisis: financial difficulties. International bank transfers are a pipe dream in Gaza. Every time I tried to get money from my family, I had to fight against closed banks, malfunctioning systems, or brokers who demanded exorbitant commissions. With every unsuccessful transaction, I became increasingly anxious and worried that I might have to stop going to school because I couldn’t afford the expenses.

Behind each unsuccessful transfer, I witnessed my father, who had formerly been a representation of tenacity and diligence, suddenly finding it difficult to make even a small living to provide for his family. Like many men in Gaza, he had lost his work as a result of the economic embargo, the destruction, and the conflict. I firmly decided that I would never again approach him for financial assistance. I couldn’t bear to put him under any more stress on top of everything he was already dealing with, not because I didn’t need it.

Therefore I worked before, during, and after classes in stores and juice shops. I worked late into the night, often until midnight, and then got up early to go to challenging medical lectures that demanded concentration. My stomach rumbled with hunger as I hurried from night shifts to morning classes, trying to focus on heart rhythms. It seemed unreal. It seemed like a never-ending struggle for existence. “Is this what studying medicine is supposed to feel like?” was a question I frequently asked myself.

I told myself that I wasn’t studying just to get good grades. Photo: Isa Hamdona

Sorrow, hunger, and homesickness became my constant companions. I fought back tears as I turned through pages of intricate material, terrified that my family might have been murdered without my knowledge. Due to the destruction of the communication network or power outages, I sometimes couldn’t get in touch with them for days. The most frustrating times were when I got alerts stating that the network was down. I felt as though I was confined to a closed room during those times, with no news or air.

Life didn’t stop, though. Exams arrived. There was a mountain of assignments. The rent was due. Because I had no other option, I persevered. I told myself that I wasn’t studying just to get good grades. I’ve been learning to make sense of this suffering—to become a doctor my family can be proud of, and to one day stand in a white coat and say, “We made it.”

In moments of breakdown, I turn to prayer. I write short reflections in my notebook—some are words of comfort to myself, others are messages of hope to my family, as if I was sending them a love that borders couldn’t block and wars couldn’t silence. I write: “One day, I will return to Gaza not as a fearful student, but as a doctor, capable of healing—even if just a little.”

I will complete my fourth-year final examinations next month, and then I will embark on his fifth year of medical school followed by a two-year internship

Just yesterday, God protected my father. After the occupation soldiers left, he headed north to see how our house was doing, but as he got there, a shell fell close to him. Thank God, though, that he was protected.

When I look back now, it’s hard to separate the weight of war from the pressure of studying medicine. They merge into a long, painful test of patience and resilience. But in the heart of this chaos, I’ve found a strength I never knew I had.