The mobile phone charging station. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaikh

Today, I was supposed to wake up and prepare to teach a new English grammar lesson to my university students. Instead, I woke up to someone calling outside my tent, asking if he could charge his phone.

Before Oct. 7, 2023, I was beginning my third year at university—the stage where I would finally start practical training in my major, translation. It was the phase that would qualify me to become a teaching assistant, working alongside my professors, the most important chapter in building “Shahed the Translator.”

After every high grade I received, I would drift into daydreams of graduation day: standing proudly at the top of my class as my name was called, my family watching with pride. That dream was the most precious thing I had ever held onto. I counted the days until it would become real, until I would finally step into the life I had worked so hard for.

But the war of October 7 had other plans. It rewrote our futures, including mine. It darkened our lives, shattered our dreams, and left behind only disappointment, pain, and endless loss.

When the war began, education at my university was suspended indefinitely. Later, it was officially halted after large parts of the campus were destroyed. The university, once a place where I built my future, became rubble. Rubble that once echoed with my ambitions. Rubble where I had imagined myself giving lectures to students.

After nearly nine months without studying, classes resumed online despite the hardship, the lack of resources, and the overwhelming difficulty of continuing. I used to ask my mother, “Do you think the war will end before I graduate and become a teaching assistant?” My dream never left me, and my mother always reassured me, “Insha’Allah, things will get better. You will become one.”

I finished my third year with distinction, as always. But the war grew stronger, crueler. I could no longer see a door leading to my dream. I could no longer imagine myself preparing exams or standing before a classroom. Excellence had lost its meaning.

Still, I refused to close the door on hope. I decided to keep myself busy, to find something that would help me earn a little money before graduating, even if it wasn’t the dream job I once longed for.

So, I turned to use the small solar panels we had in our tent and started a project to charge people’s phones. At first, I was hesitant. It was a big responsibility, and I had to watch the phones carefully, afraid of losing or damaging any of them. But those around me encouraged me, reminding me I was smart and capable enough to handle it.

Excitement filled my heart. I was happy to start a small business that would support me and distract me from everything the war had stolen. Yet, from time to time, thoughts of my old dream would return to haunt me. Still, I chose to focus on the present because surviving now was more important than anything else.

I wrote a big sign: “Phone Charging Point. From 9 a.m. to 2 p.m.” I hung it on the tent door, made numbered cards to keep track of the phones, and within five minutes, people began arriving. The demand grew quickly. I had to make extra cards. I arranged the chargers and waited for the phones to fill up, just like I used to wait for my exam results, excited and impatient for the green battery icon to appear.

On the first day, I earned about $10 from charging approximately 30 phones. I was proud. It was the first money I ever made with my own hands. I shared it with my siblings and gave my mother some to buy something cool to drink in the heat. I was happy. But a shadow of my old dream lingered. I wished I were somewhere else, explaining a lesson to students instead of watching phones charge.

During my final month at university, I had settled into a routine. The number of phones increased daily, and the income became steady. I studied for my final exams while sitting in front of the charging station. Even though I knew my dream hadn’t come true, and grades no longer held the same meaning, I refused to give up. I wanted to prove to myself that I still deserved that dream, despite everything.

Now, I am an English graduate who charges phones instead of teaching, translating, or managing classrooms. I charge batteries instead of minds.

But I will not stop dreaming. I refuse to let this be my final story. I am applying for a scholarship to pursue my Master’s degree abroad, and I plan to leave the phone-charging project to my younger brother, who is also a university student.

This is what awaits graduates in Gaza… not classrooms or offices, but the constant struggle to survive, and to keep even the smallest light from going out.