“I can’t keep quiet. I was chosen for Chevening.”
A small blue poster that Chevening prize winners like to be photographed with. I also followed the trend. After all, I was also a Chevening scholarship recipient. Or almost was.
Earlier this year, I was selected for the prestigious Chevening Scholarship awarded by the British government. I had the opportunity to pursue a one-year master’s degree in Clinical Neuropsychiatry at King’s College London, in the fall. It would be a dream come true.
But since the Rafah border was closed, I couldn’t leave. Trapped in Gaza, I endure the horror of the massacre. My dream is gone, but there is still hope.
A journey to a dream
I graduated from Al-Quds University’s Faculty of Medicine in July 2022 and officially registered as a doctor just two weeks before this genocide started.
I wanted to study abroad to further my degree, but the Chevening Scholarship was not just an opportunity to study. To me, it represented freedom. It would allow 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 a global network.
I wanted to do a degree in Clinical Neuropsychiatry because of the relevance of this field to reality in our country. My people were wracked by war, displacement and endless trauma even before this genocide began. Our trauma continues, intergenerationally, unabated.
I thought this degree would help me provide better care to my people. The opportunity had the power to change lives – not just mine but the lives of the patients I hoped to help.
With these hopes and dreams in mind, I began filling out the Chevening application in the early weeks of the war. This was one of the most violent stages of the genocide, and by that time, my family and I had been deported three times.
Anyone who has made such an effort knows that it requires not only academic success but also great effort. The application itself requires research, consultation and a lot of documentation.
I had to work on it while facing many challenges as an expatriate – the worst of which was finding a stable internet connection and a quiet place to work. But I persisted. I put my mind to it and kept thinking about the bright future that could exist while death and suffering surrounded me.
On November 7, three hours before the deadline, I applied. For the next six months, as I waited for an answer, I, like two million other Gazan Palestinians, lived through unimaginable horrors.
I felt great pain, losing friends and colleagues, watching my country fall apart. The oath I had taken as a doctor to save lives felt closer than ever to my heart and soul. I volunteered in the orthopedic ward of Al-Aqsa Hospital, helping to treat people injured by bombs in unimaginable ways.
I would change shifts at the hospital and face the realities of life in Gaza: standing in line for a liter of water, searching for firewood for my family to cook and trying to stay healthy.
On April 8, I received the good news that I had moved on to the interview stage. My thoughts alternated between the fear I was living and the courage to hope for a different future.
On May 7, I sat for my interview. I was fasting for Ramadan and had just finished a long night shift at the hospital, but somehow, I still had the strength to present myself well in front of the group.
On June 18, I received the official notification: I was awarded a scholarship.
The dream is gone
I sat for my Chevening interview the day after Israel launched its offensive in Rafah, taking the only crossing linking Gaza to the outside world. When I heard about the scholarship, I knew it would be impossible to get the necessary documents and be able to travel.
I’m still trying.
The biggest hurdle in the administrative process was that I had to go to Cairo to get a visa. From June to September, I suffered from anxiety. I waited, helplessly, as the deadline approached for my university application to be confirmed.
I reached out to various authorities and asked for help to get out, but my efforts were fruitless. I even contacted the Palestinian embassy in London in a desperate attempt to get help, but by early September, it was clear that I would not succeed. Despite my best efforts, I remained trapped in Gaza, while the opportunity I had worked so hard for disappeared.
In the midst of all this, I continued my work as a doctor. It was both a sacred duty to me and a source of unimaginable grief. I would be stationed at the ER, receiving dozens of casualties from bombings every day and going into the operating room to change the dressings of patients with amputations or deep wounds, hoping they wouldn’t get infected in the septic conditions of the hospital. .
The suffering of our patients worsened when we ran out of essential medical supplies. It was then that I had to start cleaning maggots from children’s amputation wounds and treat painful war wounds in children without anesthesia, I can still hear their cries in my mind even when I am not in the hospital. Every day, I watch patients suffer and often die from a severe lack of IV fluids and antibiotics.
The physical and emotional stress is immense. I have been forced to face death, destruction and grief on a scale that I pray most people will never know.
All this made my lost Chevening dream a reality. I don’t have the luxury of personal loss.
My story is no different – many dreams have vanished in Gaza in the last 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 frustrated that I cannot pursue my dream of studying, I have not given up hope that one day, maybe, the opportunity to do so will come again. Currently, I am still in Gaza, working as a doctor, witnessing the daily suffering of my people, and trying to make a difference in their miserable lives amid the ongoing genocide.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.
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