On July 27, the Palestinian Ministry of Education published the results of the secondary education certificate exams, also known as Tawjihi. As every year, families were seated together, their eyes fixed on phone screens, hearts hammering, everyone hoping to be the first to access the ministry’s website and announce the news with a jubilant cry. There were joyful tears and celebrations.
Thousands of students, who had endured months of pressure, white nights and fragile hope, had the results of the examination in their hands which would determine if and where they could continue their studies.
But thousands of others – those of Gaza – were seated in their tents and ruined the houses in despair. I am one of them. This is the second year that I, with 31,000 other Palestinians born in 2006, could not take the Tawjihi. For another year, we were stripped of our right to continue our education and the hope of building a future beyond ruins. Now we are joined by nearly 40,000 students born in 2007, who are also stuck in this terrible limb.
Last year, when Tawjihi’s results were announced, I was huddled in front of a crackling fire near a tiny tent, far too small to keep my big dreams. The deep frustration that I felt did not fade – she settled in my mind and remained. All what I could think was how all my incessant sacrifices, tears and efforts for a full year of studies in difficult circumstances had been for nothing.
This year, it feels even worse. Not only are my dreams of education crushed, now I find it hard to keep me and my family alive, because Gaza dies of hunger.
During these two years, I looked at our destroyed education system, classroom in class. My school, Shohada al-Nu-Nuierat, formerly a place of learning and dreams, first became a shelter in displaced families, then a target for Israeli bombings. My school bag – once filled with notebooks and study equipment – now offers essential documents and a change of clothes, always packed and ready in case we are forced to flee our house again. The academic calendar, with all its important dates, was replaced by a dark calendar of air strikes, travel and loss of friends and relatives.
In the midst of this devastation, the Ministry of Education had trouble maintaining an educational process. By wanting to give hope to the children and young people in Gaza, he undertook various initiatives to try to keep motivated students. Wealth schools were organized as far as possible, while some university students were able to continue their online studies.
For us, Tawjihi students, efforts have been made several times to take our exams. Last year, the ministry announced that it would take the exams in February. I continued to study, despite the harsh reality and the collapse of everything that surrounds me, believing that it was my chance to go ahead.
February has passed, and nothing happened. The ministry then announced that the exams would take place in April. But again, they were postponed due to the dangerous conditions. Then, in June, the ministry planned an online examination for students born in 2005 who had either failed their tawjihi or missed some of its exams; They were supposed to have done this exam in December 2023. Some 1,500 students were able to pass the online tests.
It gave me a little hope that my turn would also come, but it quickly faded. The Ministry of Education has given us no update on the process, and it seems that we were completely forgotten in the shadow of war and famine.
Some readers may wonder why in the midst of a genocide Palestinians are so concerned about an exam?
You must understand, Tawjihi is an important step in the life of each Palestinian – a decisive moment that shapes future paths for at least the next five years. He determines if we can continue our education in the field that we want and we admire to the best universities.
But beyond academics, Tawjihi has a much deeper cultural and emotional weight. It is not only an educational phase – that is part of our identity, a symbol of perseverance. In a place where occupation closes almost all doors, education is able to keep some doors open.
This is why we celebrate it as a national holiday; The results of the Tawjihi day are released resemble a third EID for the Palestinians. He gives hope to families, brings pride in whole neighborhoods and maintains the dream of a better future.
In many months, I waited for Tawjihi, I kept my dream to study medicine in a prestigious university abroad. I continued to ask for scholarships and send emails to the universities of the United States, the United Kingdom and Europe, hoping for a particular consideration as a student affected by the war. I begged university administrators to give up the requirement for Tawjihi certificate.
But the answers were painfully consistent: “Unfortunately, we cannot consider your request unless you provide your final diploma.”
Today, despair and helplessness are not the only unwanted visitors I have. Hunger is another. Famine destroyed not only my body but also my mental health.
Most of the time, we manage to have a meal. We mainly survive canned beans, dry bread or vegetable or protein rice. Our bodies are weak, our pale faces and our energy almost nonexistent. The effects go beyond the physical. Hunger starts the brain, ends the memory and crushes motivation. It becomes almost impossible to concentrate, not to mention studying for an examination that changes life like Tawjihi. How can I prepare for the most important examination of my life when my stomach is empty and my mind darkened by fatigue and concern?
I have the impression that my youth was stolen before my eyes, and I can do nothing other than watch. While my peers around the world build their future, I remain stuck in a place of crushing pain and loss.
As a tawjihi student trapped in an area of war, I urgently call educational authorities and international institutions to intervene and implement immediate solutions to guarantee that our right to education is not buried under the rubble of war.
We don’t ask for much. Giving us a chance to finish our secondary studies in Gaza is not only a question of logistics, but a question of justice and future survival.
The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.