“I can’t stay calm. I was cast in Chevening.
It’s a small blue poster that Chevening winners like to be photographed with. I also followed the trend. After all, I too was a Chevening scholar. Or almost.
Earlier this year I was selected for the prestigious Chevening Scholarship awarded by the UK Government. I would have had the opportunity to pursue a one-year master’s degree in clinical neuropsychiatry at King’s College London in the fall. It would have been a dream come true.
But the Rafah border post was closed, so I couldn’t leave. I’m stuck in Gaza, enduring the horrors of genocide. My dream has been shattered, but hope remains alive.
The journey to a dream
I graduated from Al-Quds University Faculty of Medicine in July 2022 and officially registered as a doctor just two weeks before this genocidal war began.
I wanted to study abroad to improve my qualifications, but the Chevening Scholarship was not just an academic opportunity. To me, that represented freedom. It would have allowed me to travel outside of Gaza for the first time in my life, see new places and experience new cultures, meet new people and build an international network.
I wanted to pursue graduate studies in clinical neuropsychiatry because of the relevance of this field to the reality of my home country. My people have been marked by war, displacement and incessant trauma even before this genocide began. Our trauma is ongoing, intergenerational and uninterrupted.
I imagined that this degree would help me provide better care to my people. This opportunity had the potential to change my life – not only mine, but also the lives of the patients I hoped to serve.
With these hopes and dreams in mind, I began filling out the Chevening form during the first weeks of the war. This was one of the most violent phases of the genocide, and by then my family and I had already been displaced three times.
Anyone who has undertaken such an endeavor knows that it requires not only academic excellence, but also a lot of effort. The application itself requires research, consultation, and countless drafts.
I had to work there while facing a multitude of challenges as a displaced person – the worst of which was finding a stable internet connection and a quiet place to work. But I persisted. I thought about it and continued to think about a possible bright future while death and suffering surrounded me.
On November 7, three hours before the deadline, I submitted my application. Over the next six months, as I waited for a response, I, like two million other Palestinians in Gaza, experienced unimaginable horrors.
I experienced immense pain, lost friends and colleagues, saw my homeland collapse. The oath I had sworn as a doctor to save lives felt closer to my heart and soul than ever. I volunteered in the orthopedic department of Al-Aqsa Hospital, helping to treat people injured by bombs in ways unimaginable.
I worked shifts at the hospital, then faced the realities of survival in Gaza: waiting in line to get a gallon of water, searching for firewood so my family could cook, and trying to stay healthy of spirit.
On April 8, I received the happy news that I had moved on to the interview stage. My thoughts oscillated between the horror I was experiencing and the audacity to hope for a different future.
On May 7, I had my interview. I was fasting for Ramadan and had just finished a long night shift at the hospital, but somehow I still found the strength to present well to the panel.
On June 18, I received official notification: I had received the scholarship.
A dream gone
I attended my interview with Chevening the day after Israel launched an offensive on Rafah, taking control of the only crossing linking Gaza to the outside world. The moment I received a response from the exchange, I knew it would be impossible to obtain the necessary documents and be able to leave.
I tried anyway.
The biggest hurdle in the bureaucratic process was that I had to travel to Cairo for a visa appointment. From June to September, I was haunted by anxiety. I waited helplessly as the deadline to confirm my college offer approached.
I contacted various authorities and asked for help to evacuate, but none of my efforts bore fruit. I even contacted the Palestinian embassy in London in a desperate attempt to seek help, but by early September it became clear that I would not be able to do so. Despite my best efforts, I remained stuck in Gaza, while the opportunity I had worked so hard for slipped from my grasp.
In the midst of all this, I continued my work as a doctor. It was for me both a sacred duty and a source of unimaginable sorrow. I was stationed in the emergency room, receiving a constant stream of casualties from daily bombings, then headed to the operating room to change the dressings of amputated or deeply injured patients, hoping they wouldn’t get infected in the septic conditions of the hospital. .
Our patients’ suffering was further compounded when we ran out of essential medical supplies. It was then that I had to start cleaning the maggots from the amputated wounds of infants and treating without anesthesia the painful war wounds of children, whose cries I hear even when I am not in the hospital. Every day I see patients suffering and often dying because of severe shortages of IV fluids and antibiotics.
The physical and emotional toll is overwhelming. I have been forced to confront death, destruction, and heartbreak on a scale that I pray most people will never experience.
All this put my lost Chevening dream into perspective. I don’t have the luxury of grieving a personal loss.
My story is not unique: so many dreams have been shattered in Gaza over the past 400 days.
I share my story not to seek sympathy, but to highlight the reality of Gaza. We all face an uncertain future, but we try not to lose hope.
Although I am devastated at not being able to pursue my college dream, I have not given up hope that one day, perhaps, the opportunity to do so will present itself again. For now, I remain in Gaza, working as a doctor, bearing witness to the daily suffering of my people and trying to make a difference in their miserable lives amid the ongoing genocide.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
