
I grew up in Shuja’iyya, a neighborhood perilously close to the eastern border of the Gaza Strip. Despite the risks, it was a place teeming with beauty, where life blossomed defiantly. My childhood was a blend of simple joys and harsh realities. From a young age, the sight of crutches and wheelchairs was as familiar as the morning sun. Each one carried a story of survival, of limbs lost in endless conflicts. These scenes planted something profound within me — a determination to be part of the healing process.
My future, my path was clear. I studied biomedical engineering, specializing in prosthetics at Al-Azhar University in Gaza. My goal was bold, almost simplistic in its ambition to replace crutches with freedom, to help others walk as though nothing had been taken from them.
Life as a student was a mix of challenges and small victories. Between exhausting lectures, long nights of study, and hands-on engineering projects, I worked part-time at a private clinic to support myself. The pay wasn’t much, but it covered my books and gave me a sense of independence.
My two free evenings each week — Tuesdays and Fridays — were sacred. Those were my moments of escape, spent laughing with friends by the beach or climbing Al-Montar Hill, which offered a breathtaking view of Gaza. From its summit, I could see the city bathed in lights, hear its pulse in the bustling streets below — a sight that strengthened my belief in the beauty of persistence.
After five grueling years, I graduated with an engineering degree, a solid GPA, and a heart brimming with dreams. I didn’t pause to catch my breath. While my peers took well-deserved breaks, I volunteered at Al-Shifa Hospital in the engineering department. Growth was my driving force. Learning more was my foremost goal.
When an opportunity came up to pursue a master’s degree in prosthetics at Universiti Utara Malaysia, it felt like a dream. The scholarship covered everything. My heart raced as I imagined the possibilities. This was my chance to turn ambition into reality.

The application process was grueling. I spent sleepless nights crafting personal statements, gathering recommendations, and triple-checking every document. Each word in my application carried the weight of my hopes, each form was a testament to my determination. Challenges arose — some documents required official attestations, and email responses were frustratingly slow. I felt defeated more than once. But nothing could deter me. Nothing stood in the way of my resolve.
When I finally received an acceptance, it felt like a new dawn had broken. For weeks, I immersed myself in research about the country. Malaysia was a world apart — lush landscapes, vibrant cultures. I was captivated by its traditions and cuisine — nasi lemak, char kway teow, and other dishes that seemed both exotic and enticing. I wondered, “How will I adapt to these flavors? Will I learn to use chopsticks?”
Even the tropical climate, with its heat and humidity, promised a novel experience. I watched videos of students describing daily life, imagining myself among them.
The weeks leading up to my departure were filled with excitement. My meticulously packed suitcase held not just clothes but fragments of my identity and pieces of my future. I could almost feel the humid Malaysian air on my skin, hear the unfamiliar melodies of its streets. Even the language, new to me, became a focus. I practiced basic phrases, imagining myself greeting locals with a smile.
But dreams are fragile here. One morning, the sound of bombs shattered my plans. War returned, uninvited and merciless. In an instant, my home, my plans, and my carefully packed suitcase — everything — was gone. All that remained was my passport, a scorched memento of the journey I was about to undertake.
The days that followed were a blur. My dreams of Malaysia now felt distant, like a fading image under the relentless sun. Yet while the war had stolen my plans, it couldn’t extinguish my purpose. If anything, it solidified it. I realized that the path to healing isn’t always straightforward. Sometimes, it means starting over.
Today, I do not stand defeated but defiant. My journey may have been delayed, but it isn’t over. I still see the faces of those walking on crutches, see the unspoken hope in their eyes. One day, I will answer that call. I will rebuild what was lost and carry my dreams to horizons beyond this city.
Because in Gaza, hope isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity. My dream of creating prosthetics, of giving others the freedom to walk again, remains alive. It’s only waiting.
Editor’s note: On January 15, 2025, when a ceasefire agreement was announced, Sadeq added these words:
Now that the bombing will cease, I will continue on my path, rebuild what was destroyed, and pursue my passions. My dream of helping others walk freely, of replacing crutches with hope, is still alive. It simply waits for me to bring it to life.