In exile in Egypt, I carry Gaza within me wherever I go, but I do not know where I can safely plant my roots.

He receives his math lesson in a space where students and displaced families are crowded together.

Returning home, I stopped, not because of any barrier but because of a feeling that I was about to cross into a place that no longer belonged to the living.

I have traveled a very long road to reach my goal of dual bachelor’s degrees in translation and education.

Communities find strength as prayers rise from Gaza City’s tent mosques.

When I look at photos of my beloved cousins, it reminds me that I wasn’t there to comfort or honor them when they were martyred.

I am determined to continue my education amidst the scholasticide.

If Gaza lost all of its beautiful young and innocent children, women would make dozens more.

My future remains on hold while I wait for the Rafah border crossing to reopen.

Just as my grandfather was forced off his land in 1948, we were forced from ours in 2025. We live with the hope of returning to our home, as he hoped to return to his.

Listening to my students, I feel as though I am standing between their childhoods and the war, trying to help them build a bridge towards hope.

Before, Ramadan was lovely in all its details. Now, it is layered in sadness.