The imposing and much-loved Science Building at the Islamic University of Gaza, where the author and her friend Malak spent many memorable moments. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Since I was a child, I dreamed of studying at the Islamic University of Gaza. To me it seemed like an entire world filled with warmth and beauty. My father used to take us kids there during holidays, and those visits became an inseparable part of my childhood. I remember how we played around the campus, walked between the buildings, ran up the stairs, and stopped by my father’s office to catch our breath. So many of my memories took place in that office.

My sister, Doaa, studied multimedia and often claimed my father’s office as her own little universe. Most of the time, she sat at his desk with her laptop open, studying for hours. The photos she took were inspiring, and I used to picture myself in her place—sitting there quietly and studiously, preparing for the day I would enroll at the university.

During holidays, I would make plans with my best friend, Malak, to visit the university. It wasn’t as simple as it seemed; we spent long hours coordinating over WhatsApp. Her father, like mine, was a professor at the university, which meant we had to align our schedules with our fathers’.

“When is your father going to the university? Mine is busy this week.”

“Let’s postpone it to next week, my dad has a meeting.”

This was how our conversations went. Eventually we came up with a plan. And when we did, it felt like we had accomplished something extraordinary.

The night before the visit, we would sleep early because we had to wake up at dawn. I would pray, read my daily Qur’an portion and send Malak a message: “I’m awake.” Then, I’d quickly get ready and hop into my father’s car. I always sat by the window—the journey to the university was a joy in itself. Along the way, I captured photos of the sky, the sea, the clouds, the streets and the beautiful buildings. Little did I know that many of those buildings would be destroyed by merciless missiles in the war.

When we arrived at the university, we’d split up, after agreeing to call each other when we were done. My father would head to his office, and I went straight to the science building, where I had agreed to meet Malak. Seeing her waiting for me by the entrance, we invariably hugged tightly out of excitement. Malak was my childhood friend, and our families had been friends even before we were born.

In the early morning, the campus was almost empty, making it feel like it was ours alone. First, we made our way to the wooden benches that were obscured by trees, tucked in the back corner of the campus, where nothing disturbed us. We talked endlessly on various topics, losing track of time, until one of us suddenly was reminded of our hunger and said, “We haven’t had breakfast yet!” We headed to the cafeteria, bought whatever we craved, and returned to the same private spot. Somehow, the food tasted better under those trees—as if the place itself added a special flavor to everything.

Afterward, we would start our little tour around the university. We documented every moment, even the simplest ones—a photo by the elevator, sitting on the building’s stairs, or a short video of us eating instant noodles or chips. To us, everything was worth capturing.

Our visits always concluded when our fathers were finished with work. After we said our goodbyes, we immediately began planning for our next visit, even if it was weeks away.

Not long after my last visit with Malak, I began to prepare for my first year at the Islamic University. I was incredibly excited about this upcoming chapter of my life. It felt like a big step that deserved careful preparation. I was beginning my path as an English Literature student and I spent days setting up my study space—arranging books meticulously, buying new notebooks, and creating a study area that reflected my hopes and ambition.

The study space set up by the author when she enrolled at the Islamic University of Gaza. Photo: Taqwa Al-Wawi

The first month of classes brought an indescribable thrill. I wandered between buildings, attended lectures and revisited the familiar corners of my childhood. I made sure to capture every moment, taking countless photos and videos of the campus, my friends and the simple things that would later become cherished memories. Between lectures, I spent time with friends—Al-Shimaa Saidam (who was later martyred), Aya Al-Najjar, and her friend Dania. We would meet during breaks, explore the campus, and enjoy meals together, recharging for the next lecture.

October 4, 2023, seemed like any ordinary Wednesday, but it turned out to be the last time I saw the university as I knew it. Saturday should have been just the beginning of a new week, but was the eve of war. Classes were suspended, and soon after, the news came that the university I loved, the place I had known since childhood, had become a target for Israeli missiles.

When I heard about the bombing of the university, I felt that my dreams had shattered. The buildings I had once raced through were now nothing but rubble, their walls crumbled to the ground. The classrooms, once alive with the rustle of books and the chatter of eager students, now stood empty. The trees that had once offered shade to tired students were now charred skeletons. The air was thick with dust and the bitter scent of ashes, drowning out the echoes of laughter and dreams that had once filled this place.

However, despite everything, the university continued to function. On July 1, 2024, it announced the resumption of classes online. I completed my first year entirely online with excellent grades, and I’m now in my second year. I still dream of returning to the campus I love, where memories live, trusting that Allah will compensate us in a way that makes us forget the pain we’ve endured.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.