How the War Stripped the Soul of Education — My Testimony as a Student from Gaza
The war was an unforgettable experience — bitter in every detail — as if I were trapped in a
maze with no way out.
I remember little from the morning of October 7, except that I stayed awake all night
preparing study summaries for my classmates. I had formed a small volunteer team to
summarize and share lectures with other students. I didn’t know who exactly benefited from
them, but I knew they were helping many survive academically.
At 3 a.m., I finally went to sleep — only to wake up to the drums of war . From that
moment, everything changed.
I lived in a border area, so I was forced to flee on the second day of the war.
That was the beginning of a long and painful journey — I was displaced eleven times
across the Gaza Strip.
I left my home thinking I’d return in two days. But I never did.
After losing contact with my neighbourhood, I learned that our house had been bombed for no
reason.
That house — the place that witnessed every success, every celebration, every dream — was
reduced to rubble on October 13, 2023 .
Under the debris, I lost my certificates, my awards, my books, and all the memories that
shaped who I was.
From that day, I became a wanderer.
I moved from one shelter to another, living in overcrowded schools under constant
bombardment.
No one was safe. Everyone was a target. Every second could be your last.
During our escape to the south, I witnessed scenes that will never leave my mind.
I called it “the road of death.”
Bodies — burned, torn apart — scattered across the streets.

As a medical student, I felt completely helpless. I couldn’t save anyone. I could only run —
run to survive.
In Khan Younis, I found shelter in a half-destroyed house that barely stood.
But inside me, a voice kept saying: “Do not give up.”
I started volunteering at a small medical point, providing first aid to displaced people.
Before the war, I had completed several certified courses in nursing and first aid — from Al-
Azhar University , the University Hospital of North Norway , and the Palestine Red
Crescent Society .
I was also a volunteer trainer with the PCRF in the “You Can Save a Life” project, which
aimed to spread first aid awareness.
Now, I was living that mission — saving lives with my own hands.
But displacement didn’t stop.
I moved again — to Rafah, then to central Gaza — and finally ended up in a tent that
became our only home.
That tent was our bedroom, kitchen, living room, and bathroom all at once.
Imagine living your whole life in a space smaller than your old room.
I felt like a body without a soul — but I forced myself to keep going.
When the university announced the resumption of online learning, I was torn between despair
and hope.
Before the war, I disliked online education, but now I walked over half an hour every day
under the blazing sun just to find a spot with electricity or internet access.
I charged my devices far away, then returned to study by candlelight, surrounded by
destruction.
Still, I succeeded.
Returning to my studies felt like my heart had started beating again .
Learning gave me a reason to live.
But as always in Gaza — nothing lasts.
The bombs returned without warning.
One night at 3 a.m., glass from my window shattered over my head.
The war had returned, fiercer than before.
And yet, classes continued — as if the world expected us to learn through fire and fear.
I kept walking long distances to connect to the internet and submit exams.
One day, I found myself near the site of a massacre.
People were screaming and recording videos instead of helping the wounded.
That moment changed me.
I realized that I must act — I must teach others how to save lives .
So, with a group of my friends, we formed a volunteer team to spread first aid awareness .
In Gaza, life can disappear in a heartbeat — and sometimes, one person’s knowledge can
make the difference between life and death.
Studying amid all this suffering was harder than anything I’ve ever known —
harder than being born again.
We studied inside a box made of fear and limitation, with no tools but determination.
And despite all the displacement, blood, and loss, I held onto one truth:
What we learn today will be the light of tomorrow.

In Gaza, education is not a privilege — it is resistance.
I dream of becoming a doctor with a human mission —
to spread medical and health awareness in every home,
to make health education a culture rooted in our society.
The war was a brutal teacher, but it gave me a purpose:
to rebuild not only walls, but hope itself.
Because even after everything, I still believe —
as long as there is life in Gaza,
hope will never die.