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.

I live between the silence of the present and the noise of the recent past.

Behind every completed task is a story of a struggle, persistence, and pain.  

In Turkey and Belgium, it’s a day like any other. Not so in the Gaza of my memories.

With Gaza’s Enforcement Department no longer functioning, men can avoid paying support and even take sons and daughters from their mothers.

Even though the bombs stopped on paper, life in Gaza remains a struggle for the basics of survival.

Playing guitar for and with others became my therapy and my form of resistance.