It was Saturday, the seventh of October , a date permanently etched into my memory. My day began at five in the morning with the serenity of the dawn prayer. I gently woke my brothers, preparing them for school with warm milk I had boiled with care and crisp biscuits I had bought the previous evening. Because it was Saturday, I had no university classes. Yet, I had intentionally risen early, filled with an excitement and purpose. The following morning was supposed to mark the start of our first-year clinical modules in medical school. It was meant to be my first time stepping into the university lab, donning my crisp white coat, and conducting real experiments.

As my brothers left for school, I carried a warm cup of milk to the rooftop to watch the sunrise. The morning was peaceful, glowing with warmth and anticipation. I stepped inside the rooftop room to begin studying, eager to prepare for my classes. But in a sudden, violent instant, the quiet was broken by terrifying explosions.

I froze where I stood, struggling to comprehend what was happening. For a brief moment, I desperately questioned whether it was merely heavy thunder. Leaving my books and laptop behind, I rushed downstairs. My brothers had returned halfway from school, and the entire family stood in stunned, heavy silence as we watched smoke and explosions paint the sky. I tried to pull myself back to my studies, but the noise grew deafening.

When I opened my phone and connected to the internet, the painful reality broke through: a full-scale war had begun, and all schools and universities were suspended. At that moment, I could not grasp the magnitude of the disaster; I held onto the naive hope that it would last only a few days. Those days have now stretched into three agonizing years.

From that morning onward, each day arrived heavier and darker than the last. By the fifth day, death surrounded us from every direction, and relentless bombardment forced us to abandon our home. We fled to my grandfather’s house, leaving everything behind, still clinging to the belief that we would return within a week. But the horror only escalated.

A month and a half later, while we were sheltering on the ground floor, a strike hit the top floor of the building. In the pitch-black darkness of the night, amid the roar of warplanes and explosions, we were forced to run out into the unknown without carrying anything. We spent that terrifying night in a crowded shelter school under constant threat.

By the next morning, we set off toward the South. The journey was a passage through death and terror, leading us straight into uncertainty , a place where we possessed neither a home, a room, nor a tent. Since that day, we have been trapped in a relentless cycle of displacement, unable to return.

Yet, despite three years of continuous displacement, my dream remains unbroken. I patiently await the moment I can walk through the shattered streets of my neighborhood, clear the rubble with my hands, and rebuild my home brick by brick. I long deeply for the warmth of safety and stability that was stolen from us on that fateful morning.

Above all, I hold onto the hope of returning to my university for in- person learning ,to finally wear my lab coat, step into the laboratory, and practice the clinical skills I was once so eager to master.

In the face of these immense challenges, being part of the 'We Are Still Here' project has been a vital source of strength. This initiative, dedicated to amplifying the resilient voices and struggles of Gaza's students, serves as a powerful reminder that our stories matter. Sharing my journey alongside my peers has given me the hope and courage to hold on to my dreams, proving to the world that despite three years of displacement, our determination to rebuild our future remains unbroken.