we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The computer was very useful for taking exams, attending online lectures, and downloading materials, but it was less important than paying tuition.
Sajeda’s laptop, taken in the café where she and a friend practiced what they learned in a translation course. Photo: Sajeda Abu Hjear
I am a student in the Faculty of Arts, majoring in English translation at the Islamic University of Gaza. I am in the final year of my bachelor’s degree. Before October 7, 2023, I had a humble life in which I could afford my university fees—otherwise, I would not have been able to enroll. My only dream was to graduate and become an independent, free woman. I often closed my eyes and imagined myself standing on the stage, wearing the graduation gown, and receiving my degree certificate. But, because of the war, I lost an entire academic year.
I faced many obstacles, including constantly having to move from one place to another to escape death. Our home was bombed and I was displaced 11 times, searching for safety, but never finding it. Every hardship found its way to us, and death followed us wherever we went. In addition, the martyrdom of my brother, Aref Abu Hjear—killed while collecting firewood on March 17, 2025—deeply affected my mental health, and I had to visit a psychologist.
Another major challenge was the internet. It was not available everywhere in Gaza. I had to go to designated places to access it in order to complete my assignments, and the prices were extremely high. I used to make the long walk to a cafeteria far from my tent—a half-hour trek just to get there. They charged 5 shekels per hour (about $1.50 USD), and on days when I had two exams back-to-back, I had to pay for extra hours. On top of that, I needed something to drink, and a simple cup of coffee cost 20 shekels (around $6).
In 2025, after settling—at least to some extent—in the Nuseirat camp inside an UNRWA school (we had arrived there in January), I decided to continue my studies. I did not want to lose another year. Since the start of the war, education had been free, but when I tried to register again, the rules had changed. The university required us to pay for nine credit hours each semester. The cost of one credit hour in my faculty is 18 Jordanian dinars (about $25). The total cost of nine credit hours was 162 dinars (about $225), plus 13 dinars for university services, bringing the total fees to 175 dinars (about $247).
My father had saved some money for my education, and, thanks to God, I managed to register in time for the first semester of 2025, in April, and I completed it successfully.
The money that had been set aside for my university tuition was used in order to survive, as the situation was very difficult. Prices were skyrocketing and basic goods were becoming scarce; even something as essential as flour reached $50 per kilo. My father’s savings, originally meant to help me with tuition, quickly disappeared just covering our basic needs for food and water. When the time came to register for the new semester, we found ourselves unable to pay.
Nothing was like before. We had no work, no income, and continually had to think about how we would manage each of the next few days. For me, making sure my family did not go to sleep hungry was more important than anything else.
I told my father I would not register for the semester and would take a break. He noticed the tears in my eyes and said, “Forgive me, my daughter. If it weren’t for these harsh conditions, you would have continued your education. I’m sorry.” The truth is, my father never failed me or deprived me of anything. Everything I ever asked for, he gave me.
Still, there was a heavy weight on my heart. I did not want to lose this semester the way I had already lost a full year. I hid my sadness from everyone at home. I kept thinking about how I could get the money. Before the war, my father had worked, but the war turned everything upside down. I even gave up the idea of continuing my education, but each time I saw my classmates approaching graduation, I felt a burning pain. I cried every day over the time I had lost.
Then the idea came to me to sell my laptop. I had bought it for a translation course I joined two weeks before the war so I could put into practice everything I was learning during my course. It wasn’t just a device to me, it was a tool that helped me grow, improve, and feel closer to the future I was working so hard for. I was about to sell it before even making full use of it.
The laptop received the internet better than my phone. I used it for exams, online lectures, and downloading materials, because printing was too expensive; some courses even required a laptop. It had been my companion during the previous semester and had made everything easier. Despite how important it was for my studies and future work I decided to sell it, so I could graduate and achieve my long-awaited dream.
After a stormy, rainy night, morning came, and I felt determined to sell the laptop so that I could register for the new semester. I did not want to waste more time. My family and I had breakfast, then my father and I prepared to go to the electronics shop. I checked the laptop, which I had kept in a backpack inside our tent, and made sure that the charger and mouse were inside. We went to the shop, showed the laptop to the seller, agreed on a price, and left.
That moment—I cannot describe it. I could not feel happy nor sad. On the one hand, I finally had the money to register for the new semester. On the other hand, I had sacrificed something very precious and important to me. But a certificate has its price. A Palestinian cannot obtain anything easily; we must struggle for every step forward.
I returned to the tent, transferred the money to the university, registered for my courses, and only then felt a small sense of relief. I felt I had achieved something worth being proud of. Yes, the laptop was important, but what was the point of keeping it if I did not even have university studies to use it for?
After selling the laptop, life did not immediately become easier. I faced new challenges every day. Accessing the internet became even harder, and completing my assignments and attending online lectures required more effort and patience. I often felt frustrated and anxious, knowing that every task that had once seemed simple and straightforward now demanded extra time and struggle.
It became especially challenging during exam time. My laptop used to connect to the internet signal much better, so the exam questions and answer options would load quickly, and moving from one page to the next was easy. But, the internet on my phone was very weak. I had to wait for the questions to appear, and when I clicked to go to the next page, it sometimes took a whole minute to load. This consumed my exam time, and, on several occasions, the exam ended before I had the chance to answer all the questions.
Some assignments also required a laptop. In those cases, I had no choice but to rely on one of my friends. I would send them the files, the data, and the instructions for what needed to be done. It was difficult and disheartening, depending on others for something so basic, when I wanted to do the work myself.
Attending online lectures was another challenge. Some professors gave marks for attendance, but sometimes the internet on my phone was extremely weak, making it appear as if I wasn’t present at all. I am also the kind of student who enjoys participating in class, asking questions, and sharing ideas, but, due to the feeble connection, I wasn’t able to participate.
Despite all this, I had to keep reminding myself why I had made this sacrifice. Every step, every challenge, and every small victory has brought me closer to my dream of graduating. I had to learn to adapt, find alternative ways to study. Losing the laptop was an ordeal, but it taught me a powerful lesson: Sometimes achieving your goals means giving up something precious and learning to move forward with courage and hope.
