I worked hard in high school to get the grades to pursue a major in English literature. I had dreamed of this stage in life since childhood. My mother would always say to me, “Remember, this success is yours. I will accept you at any grade without comparing you to anyone. There is no number in the world to define you.” Those words had a great impact on me. They propelled me to strive in order to please myself, not others.

My Tawjihi Day in 2021 held a magical aura I will never forget. All my family gathered in my room waiting for my final secondary school exam results to be announced. Finally, a letter arrived bearing my average and passing grade. My father embraced me tightly. I recall how his eyes welled with pride in front of everyone. My family celebrated me with Palestinian success songs and showered me with gifts. I thought the earth beneath my feet could not support me from all the joy I carried in my heart.

I entered Al-Aqsa University and started my studies in English literature. My plan was to graduate from the university and use my degree professionally.

My parents stood by me, working hard to pay my university fees. My family has always supported my brothers and me in achieving our academic goals. Under their vigilance and love, we aspired to improve our character and skills through extracurricular activities offered by universities and schools in the Gaza Strip.

I am now in my third year, but life plans in Gaza have been amputated like the leg of a man shot by the Israeli occupation. During the attacks following October 7, the occupations military purposefully reduced every university to rubble to extinguish our hopes and dreams.

No Tawjihi Day for Hamza

I was able to celebrate my Tawjihi Day, but my brother did not have the same chance.

Hamza woke up on Saturday, October 7, 2023, with the usual routine of preparing for school. Like him, I too was preparing to leave for university when we both heard the news that all classes were suspended. At first, we were happy to have an extra vacation day, like any student would. That “vacation” was the start of the saddest days of our lives.

Many universities were destroyed, and UNRWA schools were converted to shelter centers for the displaced. They soon became no longer suitable for learning. Hamza and all his classmates stopped learning and completing their studies.

Their high school leaving exams and Tawjihi Day, planned for June 2024, were indefinitely delayed.

With the ongoing war, the abrupt and violent pause of our youth’s dreams of achieving a high school diploma has now stretched into one year. Hamza aspired to pursue graphic design abroad. But unable to complete high school, he finds all his hopes  being shattered and stolen from his reach.

Schools turned into shelters

On October 13, we fled our home following the occupation’s orders to evacuate Gaza City and head south. The genocide was just beginning in the city and we evacuated, not knowing what savagery awaited the people of Gaza. We made our way to Deir Al-Balah in central Gaza, hoping for some short-term reprieve.

The evacuation threw us in a frenzy of despair and nostalgia. It was hard for us to leave our rooms and the things we loved. Our home held all the memories of our lives and childhoods, both sweet and bitter. We were unable to say goodbye to our friends. We had no time to say goodbye to our beloved and familiar street that had beckoned us home every day of our lives. With only a fleeting glimpse of our home, we ran, too panicked to look back.

I remember well, in those last minutes before we fled, how I stood in front of my books, confused about which book I would take on our exodus. I did not know that I had to say goodbye.

Streams of displaced people ran in front of us and behind us with looks of terror and the uncertainty of what dangers lay ahead. The corpses lay unattended on the road, covered in dust and blood, hands intertwined, others clutching the last things they could carry before fleeing. Scattered around them were remnants of their homes, torn family photos, and discarded clothes, while smoke rose from shattered buildings and explosions echoed through the air. The smell of gunpowder filled the atmosphere, and the faint cries of survivors resonated among the rubble, carrying a deep sorrow that weighed heavy on the heart.

There was no place for us to go for shelter except UNRWA schools. We women stayed in a room in one of the schools, while my father and my brothers slept outdoors in the schoolyard for a whole week without blankets or beds. There was no privacy at all, and diseases quickly spread.

The shock of suddenly losing everything from a quiet sky to regular meals made it difficult to adapt. I could not dispute my brother when he said to me on our way out of our home, “I will not be able to go to school after today. I will not stand in the morning queue and I will not meet my wonderful teachers.”

He used to queue at school, but now he knows only the queues for clean water and bread. Instead of studying and planning for his future, he now has to plan for his next gulp of water and meal.

One time as he waited endlessly in front of a bakery, he witnessed a massive explosion near a mosque just a few feet away from him. He could have been hit by a missile and killed, but he escaped by hiding behind the wall of a house a little away from the bakery. He would return hours later after the situation had calmed down and brought the bread to us as if nothing happened.

So many questions

We have since moved to a plot of land that contains a one-room house that is bitterly cold in the winter and stiflingly hot in the summer. But it has one bathroom. Our situation has changed from the era of modern technology to the Stone Age. We cook food over the fire in a clay oven, for which my brothers collect firewood. Since the closure of the Rafah crossing, we have found it difficult to obtain food.

When we were first displaced, my father told us that it would be two days before we would return home, but we have now been displaced for more than 385 days.

When my discontent with the world increases and the annoying sound of the zanana (reconnaissance drone) buzzes above my head, questions come to my head that I cannot ignore.

What have human rights organizations done to preserve our right to an education?

What fault have my brothers and I committed to justify depriving us of achieving our dreams?

How will schools and universities ever return to normal in Gaza?

Who will restore the libraries that were burned?

What should I do with my life until the war ends?

When will my brother finish his Tawjihi?