Since kindergarten, I've long dreamed of becoming a doctor. Every step I've taken -- countless nights spent studying, many skills cultivated, every obstacle overcome -- has been guided by this ambition. My parents, retired UNRWA teachers, and my instructors proudly called me "Dr. Hend," a name I wore with pride. It wasn't just an expectation; it was a promise I made to myself.
In 2022, I graduated high school with an impressive GPA in the top 98.1% of my class, a milestone that marked the beginning of my journey at Al-Azhar University, a long-standing bastion of learning, heritage, and resilience. The university wasn't just an institution; it was my second home. I spent every moment there, engrossed in medical studies, building lifelong friendships, and weaving a future I believed in.
One memory that stands out was the "You Can Save a Life" project, which was held twice in January 2023 and September 2022, and led by the Palestine Children's Relief Fund (PCRF) and Dr. Mads Gilbert. The course was not just to enhance medical students' hands-on skills in CPR and first aid for critical cases; it was also to enable medical students to train many generations from various backgrounds -- high school students, teachers, laborers, greengrocers, and even children - in how to deal with severe medical cases. The goal was to build a wide community of those who could provide immediate medical care in such atrocities and save lives.
Little did we know how essential this knowledge would soon become after October 7.
The genocide began. I was in the middle of my immunology semester, preparing a presentation for my professor. I remember thinking that this war, like others before it, would pass. But this time, it didn't. Since it wasn't the first escalation I lived through, I eagerly held onto my studies. I'm just 20, yet I prefer counting my age by how many wars I've witnessed -- six wars and an ongoing genocide.
My university, once alive with the hopes and dreams of students like me, was soon turned into ruins. In April, a photo began circulating: the campus reduced to rubble, tanks occupying the space where our dreams once flourished.
The devastation went beyond physical destruction. Professors who guided us through the way with unwavering dedication were gone. Among them was Dr. Hussam Hamada, a pioneer in pathology, and a high-profile pillar of the al-Shifa complex, who tirelessly served the medical community and inspired us all. He was killed while trying to guide his family to safety after days of siege in northern Gaza.
"He wouldn't want to be anywhere else but Gaza, even in its darkest times," his niece, Aseel Hamada, a third-year medical student, told me. "If he were alive, he would still choose Gaza, again and again."
The losses didn't stop there. At least 23 medical students at Al-Azhar University have been killed, their dreams extinguished. Among them were my colleagues, each with their own story and sacrifices:
Buthaina Al-Maqosi, my best friend, survived the May 2023 war but was killed in March 2024 with her family in a heinous airstrike when their neighbor's home was targeted in the Al-Nusuirat refugee camp.
I vividly remember our conversations before a psychology exam during the May 2023 war. "I'm mortified, how can we study and focus on our exam, while our people are being killed elsewhere? Though, I have no choice, but to keep going," she said.
Anas Al-Zerd was found maimed and decomposed after missing for 70 days. His family believed he had been detained, but he and his brother were killed.
Dina Al-Masri was pulled lifeless from beneath the rubble of her home in November 2023.
Said Awad was massacred, along with his family, while praying at dawn in a school in Rafah amid the final exams of the first online semester.
Bader Al-Zahinin was displaced multiple times, only to be killed when an airstrike hit his home in the Al-Maghazi refugee camp.
Mohammed Abu Jaden, a respected and helpful colleague, was killed in Jabalia refugee camp.
Saher Al-Neurab continued her studies online despite the war, but her life was cut short when a bomb recently hit her home, claiming her entire family.
Each had dreams of donning the white coat, putting on the stethoscope, and serving our community. They were not just numbers or statistics -- they were Gaza's promising future.
I, too, lost someone precious -- my grandmother, the heart of our family. She had dreamed of attending my graduation, always showering me with love and encouragement. Her absence is an ache I carry every day, but it is an inspiration at the same time- to become what she dreamt me to be - a neurosurgeon.
Those of us who survived face intangible challenges. Many of my colleagues now live in tents, displaced and deprived of basic necessities.
Samir Eid, a second-year medical student, lost his brother, sister, and seven family members. Now, he lives in a tent that offers no protection from the harsh winter or scorching sun.
"Although I've been bombed, displaced, and lost my family, I managed to excel in my exams," Samir said. His words reflect the unbreakable spirit of Gaza's students.
Some of my colleagues evacuated to Egypt, where a few enrolled in Egyptian universities to continue their studies. While many others in the clinical stage of their training received generous scholarships from Pakistan, Norway, and South Africa.
The rest of us stayed, persisting through e-learning, even as everything around us fell apart.
Online learning became our lifeline, but it was fraught with obstacles. Reliable internet is a luxury in Gaza. Many of us risked our lives just to find a signal to download lectures or sit for exams. I remember a friend who traveled miles to take an online test, only to faint in a crowded shelter after a massacre committed nearby. The mental toll of studying amid bombings, displacement, starvation, and loss is appalling -- PTSD, anxiety, depression, sleep disorders, and cold, shadow us all.
Yet, we persist.
Toward the end of December, 84 sixth-year medical students graduated, defying every odd. They donned their white coats, ready to serve on the frontlines.
"I'm proud of my students' resilience and determination," said Dr. Mohammed Zughbur, the dean of our medical college. "Their strength is unmatched. They are the future of Gaza."
But right now the future feels fragile and holds uncertainties. Even though Gaza's university infrastructure is demolished, the healthcare system is on the verge of complete collapse, and war-torn atrocities are lurking on us, we will not abandon Gaza.
What inspires me and other medical students to keep going is that Gaza needs us more than ever, especially after the systemic destruction of the healthcare system and the killing of its professionals. Our determination to rebuild every brick in every hospital and university hand in hand is extraordinary. We pledge to restore the stolen dreams of those who haven't survived and carry their legacy forward. We pledge to inspire the coming generations not to quit education at all costs as a means of liberation.
"I'm eagerly awaiting the moment when the crossing border is open, to come back to Gaza, to kiss its sand, and fulfill my duty toward my homeland," one of my friends who pursued a medical degree outside Gaza told me.
Gaza is not just a place -- it is a spirit of resilience, a phoenix rising from the ashes.
This is not just my story. It is the story of every student in Gaza who dares to dream, who clings to hope even when the world seems determined to extinguish it. We are not just survivors. We are builders of a future no war can erase.
Gaza will thrive again. And so will I.
Hend Salama Abo Helow
Hend Salama Abo Helow is a researcher, writer, and medical student at Al-Azhar University in Gaza. She is also a writer with We Are Not Numbers and has published in the Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, and Institute Palestinian Studies. She believes in writing as a form of resistance, a silent witness to atrocities committed against Palestinians, and a way to achieve liberation.