I had just begun my third year studying English translation at university when the war started. The onslaught turned my life upside down – it erased colours, shattered dreams, and broke my spirit. University education – the centre of my life and ambition – stopped. Gaza itself came to a standstill amid unprecedented destruction.
Like all families in Gaza, my family and I have suffered greatly during this war. Two years of genocide robbed us of our health and sense of stability. We were forced to flee 10 times, moving from northern Gaza to Khan Younis in the south, then to Rafah, then to Deir el-Balah in central Gaza. After more than a year, we returned to Gaza City, only to be displaced again to Khan Younis eight months after our return. Our home was badly damaged; we are now forced to live in it, with tarpaulins instead of walls.
In the summer of 2024, universities reopened but only for online learning. I registered, not because I still believed I could achieve my dream of being a teaching assistant, but because I wanted to finish what I had started.
I completed my third year – the year that was supposed to shape me as a future lecturer – from inside a tent, using unstable internet.
In February, my final year began. A few months later, famine hit us. My health started to deteriorate due to the lack of food, the displacement, and the constant fear of bombing. I lost nearly 15kg in a sudden, unhealthy bout of weight loss. My body became frail, and I was constantly dizzy due to the lack of food. At some point, we had just one meal in the middle of the day, one that was hardly enough to feed a baby. I could see my collarbones becoming more prominent as the famine worsened.
I also began to notice the severe weight loss of my family members, especially my mother. There were moments when I felt that we were on the brink of losing her. I became afraid to stay awake past 8pm, fearing the hunger I constantly felt.
Despite all the hardship, I decided not to let the war break me. I kept reminding myself that Gaza is the land of everything, and that what matters is the “now”.
One night, I decided to start my own project – if I couldn’t light minds with knowledge, I could light phones – or charge them. I shared with my family the idea of starting a small phone-charging project using a small solar panel, and they fully supported me. The next morning, I wrote on a piece of paper: “Phone Charging Point” and hung it outside our tent, and my career as a phone-charging business owner began.
I made numbered cards and attached them to each phone to ensure none got lost. My days became filled with voices calling out, “Shahed, how’s phone number 7?” I would smile outwardly, but inside, I would carry a deep ache – the ache of never imagining my final year of university would look like this.
I struggled with cloudy weather, too many phones, and final exams. Every passing cloud that blocked the sun would cut off the power supply since I didn’t have a large battery for storage. In those moments, I cried from exhaustion and helplessness.
Every day, I earned around $10, just enough to buy internet cards and simple things I once took for granted, like a packet of chips or a box of juice. I would sit there, watching the phones charge, thinking: That was supposed to be my time, my time as a teaching assistant at the university.
I took my final exams in October while surrounded by phones that were not charging because of cloudy skies, tears streaming down my face.
I am one of hundreds of thousands of young people in Gaza who refuse to let the war write the end of our stories.
Education is our form of resistance; that is why the occupation sought to obliterate it. It hoped to send us into the darkness of ignorance, dejection and resignation.
Yet, the youth of Gaza stand undefeated. We have continued to pursue our education online, battling constant internet blackouts. We continue to support ourselves and our families however we can – some selling food in small street stalls, others offering private tutoring, or starting small businesses.
Many are applying for scholarships so they can continue their education abroad.
All of this is proof that Gaza’s youth love life, love their homeland, and are determined to rebuild it, not as it once was, but even better.
I’m now applying for scholarships outside Gaza to pursue my master’s degree. I want to go abroad, study and then return one day not to charge phones, but to charge minds. If I get accepted, I will hand over my small phone-charging project to my younger brother Anas, whose dream is to become a journalist, to tell the truth about Gaza and its people.
He and I, and the rest of our peers in Gaza, refuse to give up.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect media’s editorial stance.
