we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
As universities are bombed, professors murdered, and campuses turned into shelters for displaced families, choosing to study is an act of resistance.
For the Palestinians, education is a means of survival, resistance, and hope. Photo: Huda Skaik
On Saturday, April 5, 2025, like thousands of other students at the Islamic University of Gaza, I made a life-changing decision to return to my studies. I enrolled once more after two long years of painful interruption. I finally made the decision because my life feels stable. I’m currently living in a rented house in Gaza City, where I have been raised. I’m not in a tent nor displaced in the south of the Gaza Strip. My mental health has improved, especially after returning to the north of the Gaza Strip.
The decision to return to my studies, through online classes this time, was not just a practical one; it was a defiant act of resistance. It was a refusal to let the circumstances around me define my future. I refuse to let the genocide, the displacement, and the destruction of Gaza destroy my dedication to learning.
Nelson Mandela once stated, “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.”
For Israel, books are weapons and education is its worst enemy.
For the Palestinians, education is not just a tool for personal growth—it is a means of survival, resistance, and hope. It is a powerful weapon that Israel fears.
I am currently taking courses on grammar, the short story, literary criticism, linguistics, and translation. I take these classes through Moodle, which includes recorded lectures, assignments, slides, and discussions where I can interact with my professors and fellow students.
Like many university students everywhere, I struggle every day with how and when to work. For example, it’s 12 midnight, and I’m sitting at the edge of my mattress; my books are placed on a small plastic table under a faint light. My phone battery is about 50%. My siblings are sleeping. My thoughts are scribbled on sticky notes and in the margins of my books, the pages curling at the corners. At least my handwriting is appealing; that reminds me of what my professors always used to tell me.
My desk is a small plastic table on my bed. Photo: Huda Skaik
And like many university students in Gaza, I can hear the sounds of sudden bombings and airstrikes as well as buzzing drones. I have a very poor connection to the internet. I have to be patient while I upload my files and log into Moodle.
Three mornings each week, I’ll find a place with a good internet connection and download all my lectures, videos, and slides so I can then listen to them at night. I always hear airstrikes near the place where I’m connected to the internet.
In most of my classes I find ways to connect what I’m reading to what’s happening around me. I’m interested in translation and in this course I’ve translated speeches by U.S. President Trump. In the linguistics course, I have learned the features of language; what most attracted me was that language is a symbol of a system. For example, my professor reflected on how the symbol “Handala” is an iconic symbol of Palestinian identity and defiance.
I have also taken a short story course. My professor gave us the first story, which is “Letter from Gaza” by Ghasan Kanafani. This story was written in 1956 but it is so relevant to our current situation in Gaza. It helped me to be connected to my city and people despite the huge destruction; this gives meaning to our lives as Palestinians.
In the introductory course on literary criticism, I have studied the definition of criticism, the task of the critic, Plato’s allegory of the cave, and the Aristotelian plot. We have also analyzed Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. While studying tragedy, I discovered the difference between my experience of being in Gaza amid the tragedy of genocide and that of a spectator around the world reading about that. It is the difference between enduring and observing—between living through hell and witnessing it from a distance.
We live the consequences of this genocide with every breath—sirens, drones, the screams, the loss, the remnants, the blood, the destruction. We feel hunger, fear, and the constant threat to our lives. It’s not a headline to us—it’s the air we breathe, the rubble we walk over, the people we love are being killed by the Israeli occupation one by one. Time slows down, trauma becomes embedded in our bodies, and survival becomes our daily resistance. For the spectator, it’s a screen, a scroll, maybe a surge of outrage or grief—but then life goes on. Spectators can look away and sleep safely whereas we stay awake to the sound of bombs.
Finding a place with a good internet connection to download lectures, videos, and slides. Photo: Huda Skaik
Despite the difficulties of living in Gaza, I still find ways to reach out and find ways to get my voice heard widely. I am contributing articles and reports to Electronic Intifada, The Intercept, Middle East Eye, The Nation, The New Arab, and Washington Report, as well as here in We Are Not Numbers.
The campus, which was once a symbol of my aspirations and the core of my memories, has become a refuge for displaced families. The sounds of lectures and student chatter are replaced by the cries of children and the conversations of displaced families trying to make sense of the madness unfolding around them. The buildings I had once walked through now stand as silent witnesses to the destruction of our future.
As I write this, I am reacting to something I recently saw on social media—images of the Islamic University of Gaza being turned into a displacement shelter, where families were forced to burn books to fuel cooking fires to survive. The image of the graduation ceremony hall burned and black is haunting me, reminding me of the harsh study conditions my colleagues and I face continuously. I did not witness this myself, but the images were haunting, a stark reminder of the destruction of both our educational infrastructure and the symbols of our intellectual resistance.
I dream of becoming a professor at the Islamic University of Gaza, once it is rebuilt, and this remains my guiding light. So, too, is my dream of one day becoming a reporter, telling the stories of my people, giving voice to the oppressed, and speaking truth to power.
One of the key inspirations behind my decision to return to my studies is Dr. Refaat Alareer, a scholar and writer whose work has profoundly influenced me. Dr. Refaat taught me the importance of education in the face of hardships and the significance of preserving the Palestinian narrative. He has shown me that even in the darkest times, our education is our weapon, and we must wield it with courage.
In my first year as a student, I was waiting for the day when Dr. Refaat would teach me poetry or Shakespeare, but unfortunately that will never happen because Israel assassinated him on December 6, 2023. The Israeli occupation, with its systematic campaign to silence our voices, targets educated individuals and professionals. It fears those who are empowered with knowledge, for education is the key to liberation.
In addition to Dr. Alareer, I am deeply inspired by Palestinian journalists like Hind Khoudary and Anas Al-Sharif. Their bravery is not abstract. I remember watching a report by Anas Al-Sharif, filmed in northern Gaza amid heavy bombing. His voice never wavered, even as the sound of explosions was overwhelming. He said, “We will keep speaking, even if we are the last voices left, and despite the assassination of Palestinian journalists.”
What inspires me most about these figures is their unwavering commitment to truth, even under unimaginable pressure and danger. They aren’t just reporting the news, they’re living it—often with bombs falling around them, limited access to electricity or the internet, and the constant threat to their lives and families as well as being exposed to starvation. These journalists show me what it means to use your voice when it costs everything. I study their reports not just as news, but as lessons in courage, precision, and power. They remind me why I write, why I study, and why I fight for the dream of becoming a journalist.
I refuse to let the circumstances of this brutal occupation dictate my future. Education is not just a personal pursuit; it is a collective act of resistance. It is a statement that we will not be erased. We will not be silenced. Our voices will continue to rise, and our knowledge will continue to empower us to resist, to fight, and to dream of a better future.
Despite the ongoing genocide and obstacles, I choose to keep learning. I choose to keep writing. I choose to hold on to my dreams of becoming a professor and a journalistic writer.
