‘Sometimes I would stand on the sand for hours trying to download lectures.’ Photo: Sujood Alkhour

There was once a library at the Islamic University of Gaza containing books, journals, and numerous resources that were available to students from different universities across Gaza. They would come from near and far to read and work on their research projects, often their theses.

I used to watch the master’s students, carefully studying the movement of their eyes as they diligently sifted through books as if searching for treasures hidden in the sand. Each time I witnessed them at work, I admired their efforts and dedication — promising myself that I would finish my bachelor’s degree and then pursue my own graduate studies.

When they targeted our university, it was as if they were blowing up our dreams, our ambitions, and our future. I later learned the English word for this: scholasticide. 

In the aftermath of the bombing, I saw torn books scattered beneath the rubble of the university building. Pages covered in dust fluttered in the wind, still marked with notes and highlights left by students with their lives in front of them.

I picked up a piece of paper ripped from a notebook. The words remained, but the classrooms where they were intended to be taught no longer existed. And the lives of some of the students who were meant to learn them were cut short. There was broken concrete, shattered glass and collapsed walls all around me, the silence haunted with the echoes of the voices of students and lecturers.

Across Gaza, the destruction of universities became all too familiar of a scene. It was as if education itself was being erased, and with it the future of Palestinian youth.

At that time almost all of Gaza was being bombed and destroyed, and the parts that were not were constantly under threat. All universities were forced to close their doors and suspend classes for a very long time. Instead of worrying about lectures and assignments, all we could think about was basic survival. Everyone was preoccupied with fleeing to the southern Gaza Strip, leaving their homes and everything in them in search of safety.

It was a terrifying situation, fleeing under bombardment to an unknown place where safety was never a given. Our people walked on foot under the scorching sun, searching for tents or anywhere else to take refuge.

Leaving my school bag behind

We were displaced to the southern Gaza Strip in November 2023. I will never forget the day my family and I had to leave our home, carrying only a few clothes and official papers. The streets were crowded with thousands of people walking in the same direction — south. Mothers held their children tightly, and elderly people struggled to keep walking in the unforgiving heat. We walked for hours, not knowing where we would sleep that night, or even if the place we were trying to reach would truly be safe.

Of course, I was not the only student in the crowd. I was surrounded by other young people who, like me, had once carried books and dreams, but were now carrying heavy bags with nowhere to go.

Around this time, we were supposed to start a new semester at university — for me, it would be the first semester of graduation year. My school bag was left at home with my books and the rest of my life. I only had my phone with me on the arduous journey.

When we found a tent to move into, I tried to adjust to a new life that felt more like death, constantly thinking of what I was supposed to be doing instead. I was meant to be sitting in lively lecture halls, taking careful notes, and preparing for graduation. It was so close to the time I would have been finishing my degree, and I even had a part-time job to help with expenses.

But my reality was so different, carrying water, and supporting my family’s survival in the tent. Safety, food, and windows of electricity were hard to come by, and chasing them was all consuming. Even so, I never let go of my desire to continue learning and earn my degree.

Downloading lectures

After a long period of abandoning education, some universities announced the continuation of education using an online platform. This was extremely difficult due to power outages and overall lack of electricity necessary to charge phones and other devices. We would spend long days gathering firewood, food, and water for our families and then travel long distances to connect to the internet to download lectures.

For some time, we had a tent near the beach in the Deir al-Balah area. When I heard about e-learning, I searched for a place to connect to the internet. There was a café on the beach with weak internet, but it was expensive. Sometimes I would stand on the sand for hours trying to download lectures, and then the internet would cut out before I could access the information I so desperately needed. I would return to the tent sad and exhausted.

Other times, I was able to open my phone in the tent at night and listen to pre-recorded lectures I had accessed for my Contemporary English Literature class. I would quickly summarize them and move on to the next file while I still had a phone charge.

A phone with weak internet was the only connection to education. Photo: Sujood Alkhour

Chasing scholarships as a form of suffering

One of my greatest dreams has been to study abroad for a master’s degree in an English-speaking country. My plan had been to begin submitting applications as soon as I graduated. Some fellow students had received a British scholarship, and my heart fluttered when I imagined myself in their place one day, because I had always dreamt of achieving such a great thing.

But war and displacement turned elusive scholarships into escape routes. So many students — me included — hastily looked for any such opportunity to get out of Gaza. The fully funded ones in England and Ireland were always in high demand, and the emotional rollercoaster of chasing them proved to be yet another form of suffering. 

When I opened up the application link to a scholarship I really wanted, I found out that it required many documents. Each day, I used to complete only one part of the seemingly endless application form because of how slow the internet access was. It took the whole day to do so, and when my phone inevitably ran out of charge I would return to the tent, and repeat the whole process the following day.

Adding to my stress was the quickly approaching application deadline that left no time for error. Somehow, I managed to compile all the documents, but then suddenly our internet was disconnected and the power transmitter was also interrupted. 

When I lost hope, my mom suggested that I go to another part of Gaza by car to search for a signal. It was a precarious time, with most parts of Gaza under evacuation orders, making transportation even more sought-after than usual. The cars overflowed with the luggage of displaced people, and seeing this, I returned to the tent crying. I called my brother and asked through my tears for his support in finding transport —and he did not give up until he was successful. Together, we traveled to Hamad Town in Khan Younis, a great distance from where we were sheltering.

It was the day of the scholarship application deadline, and by the time we reached an internet access point, my hands were just as shaky as the unstable connection. The internet went in and out while I filled out the forms and uploaded the documents through trembling fingers. My sister had earlier sent me photos of some of the many things needed via messenger, among them my high school diploma, current university transcripts, and identification card.

Just when it looked like something was about to go through, the internet would cut out, and my phone’s screen was wet from my tears as my brother offered some soothing words.

With a half an hour left, I tried yet again, but to no avail, and when I reloaded the scholarship application page the link was permanently closed. I sat on a stone next to the rubble of a demolished house and wept. My brother watched helplessly, and I remember saying how tired I was — tired of unfair educational treatment, tired of living in Gaza under relentless attacks, tired of how my youth was unfolding. “It’s like my dreams have collapsed,” I said somberly.

But I refused to let it get the best of me, planted my feet on the ground, and said in a low, yet firm, voice: “I will wait for another scholarship next year.”

Fast forward a year, and here I am preparing the documents for a scholarship in Ireland, hoping to work towards a master’s degree in linguistics or English. Indeed, some students have been successful in being evacuated to Ireland for fully funded study, and my friend Hala is among them.

Like me, she faced many obstacles during her application process – missed registration deadlines, closed crossings out of the Gaza Strip. “Be patient, Sujood,” she offered, “patience is the way to salvation for our people in Gaza.”

I am trying to find this patience in the midst of my dreams that embrace the sky, and I cannot wait to follow them into the wide-open horizon.