I never guessed this would be the last picture, standing in front of the glass doors, my bag beside me, capturing the final breath of normalcy. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Throughout my childhood, I visited the Islamic University of Gaza. I was taken there by my father who is a university professor. Finally, after years of dreaming about university life, I enrolled at the same university to study English literature. At last, I was officially a student. The feeling was indescribable—the university was where my future could begin to take shape.

Every morning, my father would drive me to the campus, along with my sister Sojood (who is studying medicine), my brother Momen (who is studying web computing), and my other sister Doaa (who studies multimedia).

Those mornings were magical. I would wake up before dawn, pray, read the Qur’an, prepare my bag, choose my clothes, and wait in our car downstairs. I loved taking pictures of the sky while I waited. Little did I know that I was capturing the last few days of a normal life I would never live again.

On the morning of October 7, 2023, I was still living that dream. The day before, on October 6, I had completed an Oral Communication exam and received a perfect score. I was so excited about the lesson to come on October 7 because the professor was going to announce the names of the students who had earned a perfect score, and I couldn’t wait to hear my name.

I woke up that morning as usual, prayed, got ready, packed my things—then my dream became a nightmare.

The bombs started falling, the city shook, and everything changed.

I never returned to the university after that day.

Before it was bombed, I captured the soul of my beloved university—now, it is a memory that the war will never erase. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Months passed, and eventually the news came that the Islamic University had been targeted and destroyed. It was hard to believe at first, and I tried to comfort myself by thinking that maybe some buildings were still standing. But when I saw videos of the university in ruins, I cried and asked myself over and over, why is the occupation so determined to destroy our dreams? I hate it with all my heart.

After eight long months of waiting, fear, and loss, came the announcement from the Islamic University: We will continue our education—but online.

And so we did.

Online education

I completed my entire first year online, including the summer semester. Now, in my second year, I am still studying remotely. I follow my study plan and have completed around 50 hours of coursework across three semesters, earning an excellent GPA, especially in my major courses, where I consistently achieve the highest grades.

Despite my success, I still miss that moment—the moment that was stolen from me. I never stop believing in a return to the university as it was. The war robbed us not only of our homes, streets, and safety, it also took away the simple right to sit in a classroom. I am a 19-year-old student; I had only spent a month studying on campus before the war began. And, during the war, when everyone thought the university was destroyed forever, I held on to the dream of going back. During the ceasefire, I felt hopeful, thinking that maybe, just maybe, we would return to in-person classes.

I asked my father for updates. One day, he told me: “In five months, God willing, the Islamic University will open its doors again for face-to-face learning.”

A small light, a heavy silence, and a heart refusing to give up. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

I cried tears of joy. I told everyone I knew this news. Just one semester of online learning, I told myself.

My first experience with online education was during the COVID-19 pandemic when I was in the ninth grade. I attended all the sessions, participated actively, completed all tasks seriously—we had online exams, midterms, and finals. I gave it my all because I believed the pandemic would eventually end, and that those who worked hard during this time would reap the rewards later. But no matter how hard I tried, I always felt that something was missing.

Online education was never a substitute for in-person learning. With the teacher in front of you, it’s easier to ask questions and to stay focused. You’re not alone. But with the screen, there’s a distance and a silence.

Online education has its advantages. You can study at your own pace, at your own time. But it also comes with profound challenges. Studying alone, without classmates, and without a teacher in front of you—it can be painfully frustrating. Sometimes, you wait for the teacher to be online, for the internet to work, so you can ask a question, but the connection drops, and you’re left scrambling.

Amid the chaos of war, this desk stands as my silent witness, holding my thoughts, dreams, and the weight of survival. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Dear reader, imagine doing all this amid war.

Amid the bombs, the hunger, the displacement, the sadness, and the loss. And there’s no electricity. I wake up every day just thinking about how I can charge my phone and laptop to study, especially since some materials aren’t available in print, and I have to study them on my phone and laptop. I spend the whole day thinking how I’m going to charge my devices. The most challenging part is dealing with internet access. We face countless issues—for instance, the internet can cut off in the middle of an exam, or the Moodle page might crash because of the heavy traffic and poor connection. I remember running to my sister’s house to take exams there because the internet would suddenly stop working at home. There’s a unique struggle in studying online during war that only those who have experienced it can truly understand.

And yet, we study. And yet, we excel.

Refusing to give up

This is not just a story about a disrupted education or a story about having dreams of an education shattered. It’s about resilience. It’s about learning amidst destruction. It’s about a generation that refuses to give up, even when the world around us is collapsing.

We did not choose this path. But we walk it with our heads held high.

As I continue my second year of online studies, I still hold on to hope in my heart—not just for myself, but for every student in Gaza whose dreams have been suspended, as if paused like a video. I study, and I carry in my heart the name of my dear friend Shimaa Saidam. She’s no longer here. It is my duty to continue. To study for her. To make her proud.

I dream of one day walking through the university gates again, raising my hand in a real classroom, hearing the sound of chalk on the board, and feeling the energy of face-to-face learning. I dream of sitting with my friends in the cafeteria, capturing countless photos of my beloved university.

I know that the road to returning to normal is long and uncertain. But we are not broken. The war may have shaken our buildings, but it has not shaken our will to learn, grow, and hope. Education, for us, is not just a right—it is resistance. As my dear professor Dr. Nazmi Al-Masri once said, “Life for Palestine is lifeless without education.” Indeed, our weapon is knowledge in the face of occupation.

I have tried to make the most of everything—every lecture I attend, every exam I complete, every book I read in the darkness is a form of resistance, a challenge to the occupier. We are telling the world: We are still here. We are still dreaming. And we will not give up our dreams.

I long for the moments when I sat at the bank of desks in our classroom, facing my professor; every word that once felt like a doorway to my dreams is now just a silent memory. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

One day, I will sit in a classroom again. I will laugh with my classmates. I will raise my hand and answer a question with confidence. And when that day comes, I will remember this journey—the silence, the screen, the sadness—and I will know I survived it. I made it through. And I never stopped learning. History will testify that despite all the hardships of life, we never chose the path of surrender.