Ahmed Abu-Aljidian. Photo: Said Alsaloul

Ahmed Abu-Aljidian and I met on September 9, 2017, during our inaugural English literature class as first-year students. A single, firm knock followed by the suppression of the door handle announced Ahmed’s arrival. At the corner of my eye, I noticed Ahmed hovering timidly in the doorway to our lecture hall.

“Assalamu ‘alaikum,” Ahmed said, as he entered the class.

“Wa ‘alaikum al-salam,” replied our professor, Dr. Refaat Alareer.

The professor turned his back and resumed his lecture. Ahmed was frozen in place; he had experienced such oblivious reactions countless times and was used to waiting patiently for people to recognize their unintended oversight.

Ahmed was born with anophthalmia, a rare congenital condition affecting approximately 3 in 100,000 babies born without eyes. Anophthalmia has been linked to gene mutations, vitamin A deficiency, poor nutrition, and exposure to toxic materials, X-rays, and radiation during pregnancy. For decades, Israel has demonically calculated the caloric intake of Gazans, placing us under siege while saturating the land with toxic chemicals, leading to high rates of malnutrition and congenital birth defects. Ahmed’s medical condition is arguably less of an “outlying statistic” and more the intended result of decades of slow, genocidal intent.

As Ahmed stood, glued to the spot, a few centimeters inside the classroom door, it didn’t take us long to realize he had no eyes. I rushed to his side, took his elbow and guided him to sit beside me. 

Four years later, we graduated in the same fashion: standing together. During this time, Ahmed had a profound impact on me. More than a friend, he embodied lessons in persistence, passion and commitment.

Exams, notes, boards, pens, and paper were never Ahmed’s allies—he studied exclusively in Braille. Yet, although he lived in an environment that did not accommodate physical handicaps, Ahmed never made excuses for himself. Despite his total blindness and the considerable distance between his home and the university, he managed the long journey, attending every lecture punctually. We formed a thick bond; I deeply admired his unwavering passion for life and literature.

I spared no effort illustrating things for Ahmed—painting the world around us, in answer to his curiosities, or just observations to bridge the gap between us, a gap I wished didn’t exist.

Back then, on that first day of university, neither of us could have guessed, in some years, a university course could mean the difference between life and death. Now we stand before a merciless world, after two years of barbaric violence, wondering how to secure Ahmed a scholarship, so he might survive further untold tragedy. The inability of international institutions to support Ahmed as a blind student is a pitiful contrast to the go-getter attitude and passion Ahmed has always contagiously conveyed. The fact they cannot see Ahmed’s brilliance before them, despite their two eyes, would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

In the years preceding graduation, we diligently persisted to find jobs. Ahmed sought a profession to contribute meaningfully to his community, a livelihood that would enable him, challenge his disability and benefit his family. Finally we both found employment—he worked part time in content writing and translation; I worked at an English language training center. We sank into life’s engagements and no longer saw each other as frequently as before.

On the morning of October 7, 2023, while Ahmed was dressing for work, enthusiastically fumbling with his shirt buttons, the sky thundered ominously. The war erupted and horror ensued. The moment evacuation orders reached his home in Jabalia camp, Ahmed threw his dreams aside and began contemplating how to survive the ruthless violence.

Ahmed faced every hardship of genocide and displacement with a stout heart, but when his home was demolished, fears of living permanently in a tent suffocated him. His soul flinched and flashbacks hunted him like shadows. Memories of life and plans for the future seemed to have a sweet shape before October 7.

Every tiny mental map or memory he had painstakingly internalized became ashes; routes to the mosque, the grocery store, school, the taxi stand, and pleasant walks became misleading.

The author and Ahmed, smartly dressed for the wedding of a cousin of Ahmed’s (prior to October 7, 2023). Photo: Said Alsaloul

As the war continued, the plot of Ahmed’s life-challenging story seemed to thicken harshly. Starvation took over and hunger became his new enemy. His father, Ihab, had managed to sustain a dignified life for his family and especially for Ahmed. But in recent months food supplies ran out in every house, market shelves were empty, and aid trucks were regularly looted. For many long nights Ahmed couldn’t put his hands on anything to eat.

With characteristic determination, Ahmed decided to pursue further education outside Gaza. His academic record secured him a place at Sussex University in England, to study international relations. 

“I long to raise the world’s awareness about our fair cause. If we all die in Gaza, who will carry our rights and voices to the world? The truth must be screamed to the world, even if no one believes it. We deserve to live in peace, Said,” he told me.

We sat together for long hours completing the scholarship application. He was set on rebuilding himself from the ruins of his old life. Like thousands of disabled people in Gaza (and their numbers are growing as a result of this war), Ahmed overcomes unthinkable layers of strife, every single day, in addition to the harsh conditions of life under occupation and siege. He pictured himself thriving at a university abroad; he saw graduate studies as a lifeline. When his financial aid application was rejected, he was clearly devastated but remained determined to find another way out. 

As his closest and most loyal friend, I can say with certainty that Ahmed is as creative and high-achieving as anybody else. He desperately wants to continue studying and building. Despite the insurmountable hurdles ahead, we will continue fighting for Ahmed’s right to an education. I will remain by his side, helping him navigate the additional trials life puts in his way.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.