The fishermen I talked with, entering his tent on a gloomy, wind-battered day. Photo: Mohammed Al Ta’ban

I was sitting on the sand, watching the waves, the sky, and the clouds while rain fell around me. I could hear the plastic sheets of the tents trembling in the wind. Children were playing beside me, a traditional seasonal Palestinian game called bananeer. My head would not rest, heavy with thoughts and worry. What comes next for me? Where can I go?

For the past two years, I have been searching for scholarships to continue my education. I spent my days moving between university websites from all over the world, looking for scholarships that provide pathways for student evacuation. In the end, the emails I sent these institutions were always the same: we regret to inform you that you have been rejected. I believed the reason for these responses was that I had yet to receive a high school diploma, which is a requirement for most universities.

I, like everyone of my generation in Gaza, was unable to obtain this certificate until two years later because of the war and the lack of suitable conditions. After two years, I finally received one in October 2025.  I felt relieved and reassured. I thought my suffering with rejection would end and I would be accepted somewhere, and I could finally move on with my life. I imagined that by the end of the year, I’d be abroad, somewhere peaceful and in the company of new friends, taking steps toward my dream.

But reality was not like that. It was no kinder than before. I found no scholarship, and I am stuck in the same place. All my emails and applications proved fruitless.

I began to feel frustrated, hopeless, and exhausted. Each day without any clear direction weighed heavily on me. I could no longer accept the idea of losing a third year of my life, having already lost two.

I decided to take a break from this battle and think about other things. I wanted to go to the sea. In Gaza, the sea is our refuge when life becomes too tight. We sit on the sand, reflect, and complain. I went on a rainy day. The Strip had been hit by a strong winter storm and the fierce winds had caused considerable damage to people’s temporary homes.

When I used to walk out to sea, the horizon of water would slowly come into view. Now, it was the tents of the displaced that appeared before anything else. Some tents had been blown away by the wind, leaving only their bases behind. Others were half-damaged, and some had been flooded by the rain. Every family was busy with repairs. I passed by some children and their mother sitting in the open, while the father moved hurriedly about, reinstalling their home.

When I saw all of this, I had one thought: Have these people not grown tired of this life? Hadn’t they thought about giving up?

This was their third winter in these tents—every day, the same suffering and problems, the heat of the summer and the rain and cold of winter. But if they gave up, what would come next? What was the alternative? They would remain exposed, in the cold. The result was the same. The tent was the only thing that preserved their dignity.

I reached the sea, went down to the shore, and sat on the sand, watching the waves and the sky, where dark clouds moved, announcing more storms to come. I sat in silence, but the questions and thoughts in my head did not stop. I thought about giving up, but I couldn’t. Like the people in the tents, we were all tired of this situation. I was tired of rejection. They were tired of the cold. I was tired of the uncertainty and the lack of any clear path, and they were tired of the rain that had continued to flood in.

At sunset, on my way back home, I saw three young men who looked like brothers. They were getting their small boat and fishing nets ready. I greeted them and asked, “Are you going out to the sea?” They all answered, “Yes.” I said, “The cold is very harsh, the waves rise at night, and enemy boats will be everywhere—they could arrest you.”

The eldest brother replied, “I know all of that, but we are forced to go out. There is no other choice.” The younger one said, “If it were up to me, I would not go out in this cold, but I do not have the luxury of giving up.”

“I do not have the luxury of giving up.” He said it not as a complaint, but as a simple fact.

The sentence stayed with me as I walked away from the shore. I thought about how all of Gaza lives by this unwritten rule: We get tired, we are exhausted, we complain, and then we stand up because the alternative is harsher. The fisherman who faces the sea during a storm, the family that rebuilds its tent after every rainfall, and me, returning to my laptop and university emails—we all continue not because we never think about stopping, but because stopping leads nowhere.

On my way home, I carried no clear answers and no university acceptance, but I returned with one decision: to continue. Here, in Gaza, continuing is not heroism. It is the only way to survive.