we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
A high school student strives to continue her studies, despite continuing obstacles.
Morning assembly at Kuwait School, before the war. Photo: Kuwait School Facebook page
On Oct. 7, 2023, I was living in the north of Gaza and getting ready to go to school, like every school day, as a student in the 11th grade. The school year had just begun, and I was filled with hope and excitement.
I attended classes with a clear goal: to finish the year with excellent grades and join the following year the Tawjihi (General Secondary Education Certificate Examination) class, my last year in high school. What I didn’t know was that this would be the last day I would ever set foot in my school, Kuwait School, to attend any classes.
I had no idea that my life was about to be completely transformed—from one of studying and structure to one of displacement, constant bombing, and moving from place to place in search of safety and stability.
Due to the continual bombing, I was no longer able to attend school, sit at my old classroom desk, or see my friends. I never even got the chance to say a proper goodbye to my school. Every time I heard anybody mention the name of my school, my heart would race with longing and hope.
When my friend Safaa told me that the school had been partially destroyed, I felt broken and weak—I cried. I wished with all my heart that I could go back and repair the damage caused by the occupation forces and protect whatever was still standing.
Around April 2024, schooling slowly resumed, but only online. I studied while ignoring the continuous sounds of bombing. With every explosion, my heart would pound with fear. I used to go, whenever possible, to a nearby port on the sea to buy internet cards, since the internet in our home was completely cut off.
I downloaded textbooks and study materials to my phone, returned home, and reviewed them electronically, writing down important information and ideas in my notebook. While studying, I would lift my head and imagine myself sitting at my beloved desk at school, surrounded by my teachers and classmates.
After a year of war, volunteers began setting up educational tents to replace destroyed classrooms in the southern Gaza strip. Students would gather there to study. But I was now in western Gaza, far from any of these tents. I kept searching for one nearby, but to no avail. At that point, I felt a deep sense of depression—I was losing my right to education once again.
None of the educational tents were within walking distance and there was no transportation. Fuel and diesel were unavailable, and when they were, the price per liter had soared to $100—more than 20 times the pre-war price. The roads were destroyed, filled with rubble and shattered glass from bombed homes.
When a temporary ceasefire began in January 2025, I returned to my destroyed home, cleaned it, and tried to settle in, learning to live under extremely harsh conditions. I resumed my studies with determination, staying up late at night to review my lessons.
This continued for over a month, until the war erupted again. The bombing and death returned. Yet despite everything, I continued to study and decided to search once more for an educational tent where I could complete my Tawjihi year.
Then my friend Farah told me that they had reopened Tal Al-Zaatar School as an educational tent, only about a 20-minute walk from my house. My teachers were teaching there, and all my classmates had joined.
I felt overwhelming joy—I was finally going to chase my dreams again. I would see my friends and teachers, and I would continue my journey toward graduating from Tawjihi with a high score.
I told Farah, “Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to visit the school and join the educational tent. I’ll ignore the sounds of bombing and my fear of death—I will focus only on my studies.”
The next day, I got up early, tidied the house, got dressed, and left with my friend for school. In my mind, I pictured a big tent filled with my classmates. On the way, I passed by my old school. I saw it full of displaced people who had lost their homes. Their faces were pale with fear and hunger.
I remembered how my school used to be—clean, full of students learning, and teachers explaining lessons. I still had the clear image of myself, sitting at my desk, focused on my teacher.
I continued walking toward Tal Al-Zaatar School to join the students in the tent—but to my shock, I found it had been closed and turned into a shelter for families forcibly displaced from Beit Hanoun in northern Gaza. I felt devastated. My right to education had been taken from me yet again.
The road is long and hard, filled with obstacles standing between me and my dream. But my faith in God and my belief that this darkness will lift soon is stronger than my fear of war and the challenges to continuing my studies.
