Gifts from my family during the final exams of my last year in school—a reminder of their love and support when I needed it most. Photo Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

One day, as I was tidying up my room—something I enjoy doing from time to time—I found myself pausing in front of some objects I’ve kept for years. I was picking up books and papers, placing them in their usual spots. My hands were organizing these items, yet my eyes were lost in every piece, every memory, every moment. It’s hard to describe what I felt at that instant, but I felt like I was reliving all those memories, all those feelings from times when the world felt so different. As I searched for a place to store these items in my closet, these thoughts expanded to everything around me.

Every item in my room held a story, a connection to the days gone by; its meaning understood only by me. Every item had an invisible pull, as though it was a part of me, more than just inert objects filling up space.

The faded edges of my school certificates curled slightly as I spread them across the floor, one by one. Golden stars and printed praise gleamed under the afternoon light, but my eyes were drawn past the ink—to what they didn’t say.

One certificate rested near the edge of the rug. I remembered that one. The night before, I had studied with trembling hands, my head heavy with fatigue. I had scribbled notes until the margins vanished, and whispered silent prayers before dawn broke. When the result came, that certificate arrived like a soft whisper of validation—a quiet reward for all the times I’d almost given up.

Beside it, another certificate reminded me of mornings when I would rise before the sun, forcing my sleepy mind to focus. Each paper wasn’t just a record, it was a memory: the sound of pages turning, my mother’s knock on the door, and the quiet tears I wiped away after a difficult exam.

I sat in the middle of the scattered sheets, the weight of 12 years pressing gently on my chest. These weren’t just academic achievements. They were moments of defiance, quiet triumphs, and the slow climb toward a dream I still held close.

Trophies, plaques, and awards I received at various celebrations during my Tawjihi year. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Next I found my exams, representing another part of my educational journey. I always kept all of my exams, especially those from the 10th and 11th grades, and the practice exams for 12th grade. These papers were more than just tests; they were living records of my journey—of suffering, excellence, and pride.

Opening those packets felt like cracking open a time capsule. The faint scent of ink and paper carried me back to sleepless nights lit by a dim desk lamp, my fingers stained with highlighter marks. I could almost hear the ticking clock, the rustle of pages, the racing of thoughts too fast to catch. Each exam I held was more than paper—it held the weight of silent prayers, hands cramped from writing, and the heavy air of mornings spent on the edge of panic. But in the end, each exam represented a victory, and every grade I achieved marked my personal and academic growth.

I spread all my exams next to each other, and I held on to a particular English exam from my senior (Tawjihi) year, one where I scored a perfect mark under the guidance of Muhanad Al-Shafei, my teacher. Mr. Muhanad was supportive and positive, the kind of person every high school student needs. As I looked at that paper, memories rushed in—each one echoing the guidance and endless support he gave me throughout my senior year.

Certificates of Appreciation from school and Qur’an memorization — small papers, big childhood pride. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

As I stood before my desk, my eyes landed on a scattered collection of pens—some with faded ink, others still gleaming with color. A glittery purple one reminded me of a phase where I believed sparkles made everything easier. They weren’t just tools; they were quiet companions that had seen pages filled with my handwriting, my fears, my growth.

My notebooks rested beside them like old friends. One had pages full of highlighted lines and little doodles in the margins, capturing both academic notes and the restless thoughts that kept me up at night. Each cover had a texture, a smell, a memory. Inside them lived my unspoken dreams and the days I felt like giving up but didn’t.

One notebook had a star drawn on the front, a little faded now. It was from the 9th-grade reading challenge. I could still remember the moment I found out I’d won second place, the way my heart fluttered even though the pandemic stole the ceremony and the prize. But no lockdown could erase the sense that my words had mattered.

Of all the certificates I own, my Qur’an completion certificate remains the most valuable and meaningful to me. It’s not just a document—it’s the culmination of a journey that shaped my soul. Each certificate I received along the way marked another step closer to a lifelong goal, but the final one—the one that declared I had completed memorizing the entire Qur’an—meant everything.

I remember the day of the final evaluation like it happened yesterday. I sat in front of two sheikhs and two sheikhas, answering from different parts of the Qur’an. Their voices were calm, yet firm, and I moved between verses with steady breath and a quiet heart. That sense of peace inside me is something I’ll never forget.

But before that moment, there was a long road filled with memories. It began every time I stepped through the mosque doors, carrying my notebook and Qur’an. I’d sit with my friends in our usual corner, revising together, laughing softly before the session began. Our teacher would listen to our recitations with patience—correcting, repeating, encouraging. Her voice still echoes in my mind, saying, “Focus—you can do it.” Sometimes I stumbled, other times I flowed smoothly, but there was always warmth in that space, and sincerity in our hearts.

Throughout my school years, I received many gifts from my teachers, friends, and school principal. I loved participating in any competition, and I often won and was honored by my school. These gifts were symbols of their support and encouragement to keep moving forward. While they may have seemed small to others, they carried great meaning in our hearts. In the later years, especially during my Tawjihi year, I received many gifts and trophies from graduation celebrations.

I stopped and held my graduation trophies, remembering every celebration I attended and every trophy I received. Those memories of beautiful moments etched in my heart symbolize appreciation and recognition for the hard work I put in during that tough year.

My English exams in my final year of school (Tawjihi), where I scored full marks. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

As for the gifts I received from my family, they were always expressions of their love and care for me. One gift stands out: One afternoon, deep into my final exams, I was hunched over my desk, surrounded by notes and pens, when the door creaked open. My family walked in, holding a small box wrapped with care. The moment I opened it—a package from the online shop, Molhem—I felt my chest tighten. Not because of the gift itself, but because of what it said without words: We see you. We believe in you.

Back in my school days, I received many gifts from my friends, like bracelets, notebooks, small stuffed animals, or even little gift packages. Each gift had its own special meaning, reminding me of the beautiful moments we shared together, especially during the tough times. Even though these gifts might seem simple to others, they meant so much more to me. They were a constant reminder that I was never alone, and that there were people in my life who truly cared for me and supported me every step of the way.

My essentials for the journey — notebooks, pens, and everything I need to keep learning and growing. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

But now, in this difficult moment, not a war but brutal genocide, we’ve been told to evacuate our area because it’s no longer safe. And I keep asking myself—how can I fit my entire home into a small bag? How can I choose between all the things that tell my story?

But I write. I write because it’s the only thing I can carry with me. If I have to leave my belongings behind, I won’t leave behind their stories. I’ll carry them in my words, in my heart, and in my soul.