we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The graduation party I envisioned was a dream. Instead, I have only simple photos to mark the day.
Shahd holding a graduation card that reads, “Shahd is finally a graduate.” Photo: Sewar Alderawi
I have always suffered from an impatient imagination. Long before reaching the end of any road, my mind flies straight to its destination.
When my mother accompanied me to register at the Islamic University of Gaza back in 2022, I found myself already imagining the day I would wear a graduation cap. I could see myself in a black gown with the university’s gold sash, my name written on one side, and my major, English Literature and Translation, written on the other. My graduation would be a triumph: a celebration forged from sleepless nights, a moment of unbridled joy, and a gift of pride to my parents.
Instead, reality struck, leaving me under a weight I could barely carry. It felt as if a concrete high-rise had collapsed onto my 48-kilogram frame.
I grew up in a household where education was revered above all else. My mother studied geography but, throughout my childhood, she often spoke of the regrets that haunted her for leaving her degree unfinished. “Never repeat my mistake,” she would tell me. “Education isn’t just about shaping your character. It’s a shield. It’s a light that guards your entire life.”
My father poured all his time and labor into securing our books and supplies; neighbors would tell us how lucky we were to have parents who valued learning so deeply.
Over the years, I learned and memorized thousands of words, now as deeply rooted in me as the olive trees in our land. Today I use those words to tell my story and let the world understand our pain.
During my first year of university, I traveled daily between Deir Al-Balah and Gaza City. My commitment to my studies was unwavering, whether I was sitting in the university library during my two-hour break or at home at my simple desk where I had pinned photos of Palestinian martyrs alongside that of Ahmed Manasra, a Palestinian who Israeli forces arrested at the age of 13 and released almost a decade later. The haunting fear in his eyes during his arrest spoke to me of a life trajectory lost to unlawful detention and routine violence against children.
Then came three years of genocide, when I had to defy the unimaginable just to survive. Terrifying news replaced all conversations about lectures and exams, as we lived under the constant fear that every moment could be our last. The horror became unbearable when my cousins, 29-year-old Amer and 24-year-old Ahmed, were killed on Salah Al-Din Street when a house was bombed as they were walking past it.
Shahd’s cousins, 29-year-old Amer and 24-year-old Ahmed, were killed as they walked by this house when it was bombed by Israel. Photo: Shahd Alnaouq
On August 14, 2024, I had a midterm exam for my second-year Grammar II course. With a borrowed phone, I sat near our house to catch a weak signal originating from a neighbor’s router.
During the exam, a massive explosion shook the ground. Shrapnel rained down near our house. There was no time to think. Instinct took over: I ran for cover, leaving the exam untouched for two minutes before remembering that I had to go back and finish.
The airstrike hit tents inside the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital compound, right next to our home. For the rest of the hour, amidst the blare of sirens and the screams of injured people, I could hardly process the exam questions.
But I pushed through.
During my second year, five homes belonging to my uncles and grandparents were destroyed in Khan Younis, and the hospital right beside us was repeatedly shelled. The house directly next to ours was bombed killing five neighbors whose bodies I watched people pull from the rubble.
The husbands of my two aunts were killed and our maternal relatives fled from the south and sought shelter with us. More than 30 people from six families squeezed into our 190 square meter home, leaving no space to breathe. I struggled to find a quiet moment to study. Fear weighed heavily on all of us and each night I asked myself when we would wake up from this nightmare of daily violence.
In my senior year, conditions were even more unbearable. We endured mass hunger. My focus was shattered. Gaza’s markets became ghost towns where money lost all value. People risked their lives lining up at aid trucks, targeted like birds by Israeli forces.
In our home, the famine hit us all: my sister Enas, who has a disability, dropped from 67 to 53 kilos, my father lost 30, and my own body shrank from 50 to 42. There were periods when two full weeks would pass without tasting a single piece of bread. We mostly survived off lentil soup.
A pot of food prepared as part of Shahd’s family survival recipes. Photo: Shahd Alnaouq
Even so, my imagination refused to give up on the celebration of graduation day.
One night at 1 a.m., I sent a message to a student affairs officer on WhatsApp, asking if there was any chance there would be an official graduation ceremony for the class of 2026. “It’s nearly impossible but hope never dies. Keep your hope alive, focus on your studies, and leave the ceremony aside,” was his reply.
The long-awaited day arrived: June 25, 2026. It was my final university exam.
The exam was held in person at a modest wedding hall in the Nuseirat Refugee Camp. I had to walk to the city center, which had been a busy transportation hub before the genocide. Now all I found were donkey-drawn or horse-drawn carts and makeshift trailers. I waited under the harsh sun, worried about airstrikes and the possibility of missing my exams, until I found a ride.
When I finished my final exam, in the overcrowded hall that once hosted wedding celebrations, I wanted to drop to my knees and pray in relief that the academic battle was finally over. But when I looked up, the first thing I saw was a row of five nearby houses. Every single one of them had been bombed flat to the ground.
A few of my classmates walked up to me, their voices breaking the silence. “We’re done!”
We stood together to take a few keepsake photos. Our faces looked hollow and pale, with faint smiles of relief because at least our university battle had drawn to a close.
Shahd (center) with her friends after their final exam. Photo: Tasneem Siam
I returned home and began the long wait for my grades. I started to breathe more easily when I learned every single score was strong. I also felt a quiet shock seeing that my academic ability had survived, even while the ongoing military operations destroyed every trace of our surroundings, including olive trees, palm trees, and orange groves.
And yet, my mind was racing so I knew my intellect was still alive. My ability to learn and succeed was still there.
As I anticipated the last grade, I kept asking myself, “why aren’t you happy, Shahd? This was the dream of your life.”
My final grade was the highest score of all. My instructor sent me a message saying she was so proud of me. I had secured the second-highest score out of 150 students. For a moment, it felt like a miracle.
But the joy was trapped inside me. I was in a quiet battle between my mind and my heart. My mind kept reminding me that this was the day I waited for, but my heart answered with a painful truth: I had gotten used to constant worry, sudden evacuations, and loss.
I wondered if the university might organize a small ceremony. Perhaps they would consider at least hosting a small gathering in temporary shelters, beneath tents, or out in the street.
No message ever arrived.
Then came the painful realization in the pit of my stomach: there would be no ceremony, no formal celebration of this new class of graduates.
Something inside me refused to let the moment pass without a trace.
I contacted my friend Sewar, who has a talent for mobile photography and lives near a small open area with two palm trees, a few olive trees, and some grass that had survived the bombing. I also ordered a graduation cap and a custom sash embroidered with my name and major. Since no imports were allowed, I was lucky to find some determined people who had started making them again. The fabric was not as high quality as before because everything was made from the limited materials available, but I was grateful to find such items at all. With my cap and sash in hand, I went to take photos to preserve this special moment for all time.
There was no university stage. No anthem. No crowd. No official photographer. There was only a small outdoor space, my friend’s phone camera, a simple bouquet of flowers, and a card that I printed myself:
“Shahd is finally a graduate.”
