"When I was accepted to Trinity College Dublin, I imagined a fresh start, new lectures, late-night study sessions and a campus alive with possibility. The plan was clear: begin my studies in September 2024 and finally step into the future I had worked so hard for. But when September came, the borders of Gaza were shut tight, my neighbourhood was being bombed almost every day, and the dream of university collapsed with the buildings around me."
"Trinity sent me a deferral letter, and I remember holding it in my hands and feeling torn in two. I didn't know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken. That letter became a strange symbol of hope, a reminder that maybe, someday, my life could continue. But everything else was falling apart so quickly that it was hard to believe in anything."
"My family and I were displaced five times as the war intensified. Each time, we left something behind: books, clothes, memories, safety. After the first temporary truce, we went home for a short time. But it no longer felt like the place we had built our lives. The walls were cracked, windows shattered, and floors coated in dust and debris. It felt haunted by what had happened."
Acceptance to Trinity College Dublin promised a fresh start with a planned September 2024 beginning, but the war in Gaza closed borders and destroyed that possibility. A deferral letter offered a flicker of hope amid escalating bombings that forced five displacements and losses of books, clothes, memories and safety. A short return after a temporary truce revealed a damaged, haunted home with cracked walls and shattered windows. As the middle child, responsibility for older sister Razan and younger brother Fadel deepened, prompting efforts to comfort them through fear. In April 2025 the narrator's name appeared on a restricted list allowing about 130 people to leave Gaza.
Read at www.aljazeera.com
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