we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The war broke my hand, but not my dreams for my career.
Reem Abd in her sister’s graduation robe, imagining her own graduation someday. Photo provided by the author’s sister, Reda
I can still clearly recall the first time I knew I wanted to be a dentist. I was 10 years old. My younger brother, Abdulrahim, had toothache. One of his baby teeth was painful and I decided to help him.
Abdulrahim trusted me even though my hands were shaking. I fastened some string firmly around his tooth and tugged rapidly. With a slightly bloody smile, he said, “You’re my dentist now.”
My dentistry dream was born.
When I started high school, my goal to become a dentist continued to grow, but it was not an easy journey. Like all students in Gaza in the middle of war, I experienced frequent power outages, erratic access to school, and a shortage of even the most basic study materials. Surrounded by drones and explosions, I studied by candlelight and reviewed lessons on my phone.
Then, in October 2024, one year after the war began, I was wounded by an airstrike in Gaza City on my way home from a private tutoring session. A meter from me, a missile struck. I only recall the intense pain in my right hand, a cloud of dust, then the tremendous detonation.
Hours later, I woke up in Al-Ahli Arab Baptist Hospital. I had been rescued from the wreckage by a young man I didn’t know. The bones in my right hand were fractured and the nerves were damaged. The doctor said I might never be able to use my hand with the same dexterity again.
I was 17 years old. I had to learn to do things using only my left hand. It was difficult to write, to wield tools, and even to eat. I practiced by helping my younger siblings with their studies and assisting with some household tasks.
After undergoing surgery, I needed specialized physical rehabilitation equipment. Undeterred by the high cost, my father gently reassured me, “This is your dream, and I will support it until the end.”
The situation remains extremely challenging for every student in Gaza. We are often unable to use the electronic equipment necessary to attend classes or carry out research when there is a power outage.
We are often unable to use online learning environments or seek academic support from peers and professors due to a lack of internet connectivity.
The price of school materials is exorbitant. Even basic supplies, like paper and pens, have become expensive. Some students recycle old notebooks or study on their phones, despite the frequent power outages and difficulty of charging them.
I need at least two notebooks a week to work out scientific problems, and a single notebook costs 90 shekels, or almost $25. I feel bad when I see how much my father spends on books, pencils, and notebooks for me, yet he comforts me. “Don’t worry about what I pay.”
I was supposed to start college this year. However, along with 36,000 other seniors of the 2006 and 2007 cohorts, I was unable to finish my high school coursework because the war led to a one-year suspension of school activities. This postponed our final year, Tawjihi.
When, on October 1, 2024, the school year resumed online, we were supposed to study the entire national curriculum in just two months. The challenge was enormous: there was so little time, such poor internet, and no teachers to help us understand complex ideas.
The mental and physical exhaustion is greater than the academic pressure, especially after falling two years behind.
And, after all of this, the exams are still postponed. The Ministry has not announced a new schedule so I’m even now waiting to sit the exams. Only then can I can finish my Tawjihi year and enroll at a university. I hope to do this just as soon as I can.
Students live in constant fear of losing everything. Many of us are haunted by the thought: “Why should I study if we might die at any moment due to the ongoing bombings?”
It is a fear that disrupts our concentration and diminishes our ability to stay committed to studying.
Whenever we try to find a solution to one problem, another arises. The problems are deep-rooted and unending—the violence continues, living conditions worsen, and no fundamental solutions are proposed or implemented.
I’m now nearly 19 years old.
My sister took a photo of me in her graduation gown to reflect my aspiration. This photo is my symbol of hope. It embodies my dream to graduate in the future.
My right hand has not fully recovered yet, and I still face some difficulties using it. However, I continue to undergo physical therapy and I hope that in the future I’ll be able to use it in my dental studies.
I’ve dedicated my entire life to pursuing my dream of studying dentistry and I live in hope. I want to start a clinic in my community to help people who have endured too much suffering and to treat kids who, like me, tie threads around other’s loose teeth.
