I didn’t register for classes this semester. When I saw on Facebook that the Islamic University of Gaza had opened for online enrollment – online because Israel has destroyed IUG’s campus – I considered signing up for classes. But, in the end, I lost my enthusiasm and decided against it.

The situation here is incredibly uncomfortable. I’m displaced in a tent in Nuseirat, central Gaza, with about 20 people. The internet is slow, there is constant noise around me, there are unexpected evacuations and my mental health is devastated.

This would’ve been my third year of studies in English literature at IUG. And under ordinary circumstances, the start of the academic semester would feel like a time of promise and new beginnings.

Not this year.

I couldn’t imagine participating in formal classes, even online ones. I’m now a sophomore student stuck in my second year.

Memories of Building N

This time last year, I was registering for English language and literature courses. I chose this major because I hope to one day be a professor myself.

Every morning as I headed to the university, the streets near campus were crowded with students who had come from all over Gaza to pursue knowledge.

We’d head off to our respective buildings and settle into our seats with our pens and notebooks, waiting for the lectures to begin.

I’d go to Building N for lectures on Shakespeare and poetry; the elements of short stories; the Aristotelian plot; Sophocles’ play about Oedipus; and the art of translation and linguistics. Then, during breaks, I’d meet up with friends to chat and catch up on life.

Building N is now completely destroyed. Burned up in an Israeli attack. Also gone is the campus library, where I’d spend countless hours reading and studying; the administrative building, where I’d meet with professors for office hours; and the conference hall, which was the site of graduations and student exhibitions.

The destruction of these buildings is not just a structural loss. It is a deeply personal loss – the erasure of memories and a way of life, when my daily concerns revolved around being creative and productive.

I long for the days when I could lose myself in the pursuit of knowledge and my textbooks.

Education as resistance

To pursue learning and education at this moment in time, during this genocide, now feels like an act of resistance and reclamation.

The familiar rhythms of academic life have been upended, replaced by an environment where safety is a luxury and the sounds of conflict are a constant reminder of our reality.

To sit at a desk and read is no longer a possibility but a symbol of a past life that feels increasingly out of reach.

Sometimes, looking back is painful. I think about last year, when I was reciting Tamim al-Barghouti’s poem “In Jerusalem” at the annual festival held by the English department, where students would recite poems, sing or act in plays. It was a chance for us to face our fears and come out of our shells.

I remember the pride I felt while on stage, and the applause that came after. “You are all shining stars of the English department,” the head of the department told us.

I felt hopeful and determined that the future I envisioned for myself would be a reality.

My morning ritual

I didn’t enroll in classes, but I’m still studying and learning. A friend and I even set aside Fridays to talk about what we’ve learned during the week, like our own independent study.

Each morning, I wake up to the sounds of artillery explosions or the buzzing of drones. The faintest light comes from through the cracks of our makeshift curtains in the tent. I rise from my mattress on the floor and get on with my day.

My morning ritual is important to me. My first task is to sit alone for a bit, to try and find some peace from the noise and chaos. I read the news in English and write stories and poems.

It is harder now to do things that once came easily. I struggle to upload books to my phone with the slow and often unavailable internet. The pens and notebooks I now use are different and more costly than the ones I once used.

But I know that every line I write and every day that I pursue my own education is a defiant stand against the destruction that encircles me.

With or without a desk, a reliable network connection, my fancy pens and sticky notes and the safety that I once took for granted, I am wholeheartedly dedicated to my education.

Huda Skaik is an English literature student, a writer and a video maker.

Tags

• Islamic University of Gaza
• freedom of education
• Gaza genocide

• Facebook
• Twitter