The results of the secondary education certificate exams, also known as tawjihi, were made public on July 27. Families sat together, eyes fixed on phone screens, hearts pounding, hoping to be the first to access the ministry’s website and yell out the news with a cheerleading yell, as every year. Celebrations and joyful tears took place.
The exam results were in the hands of thousands of students who had endured months of pressure, sleepless nights, and fragile hope. They would decide whether and where to continue their education.
But in a state of desperation, thousands of people, including those in Gaza, were sleeping in their tents and destroyed homes. I’m one of them. This is my second year of being unable to take the tawjihi, along with 31, 000 other Palestinians born in 2006. We have lost our ability to continue our education and the hope to find a way out of the ruins for another year. Nearly 40, 000 students who were born in 2007 are now joining us in this terrible limbo.
I spent the last year staring down in front of a shattered tent in front of a crackling fire as the results of the tawjihi results were revealed, far too small for my big dreams. I was deeply irritated, but it continued to percolate and persist. All I could think about was how all my sacrifices, aches, and relentless efforts over a full year of difficult academic work had been for nothing.
It feels even worse this year. I struggle to keep myself and my family alive in Gaza because I’ve been denied my education dreams.
I’ve watched our educational system being destroyed, classroom by classroom over the course of these two years. Formerly a place of learning and dreams, Shohada al-Nusierat, my school, was later used as a shelter for displaced families before being targeted by Israeli bombing. In case we are forced to leave our home once more, my schoolbag, which was once filled with notebooks and study materials, is now packed and ready. A grim schedule of air strikes, displacement, and friends and loved ones has taken the place of the academic calendar, with all its significant dates.
The Education Ministry has struggled to maintain the educational process despite this destruction. It has taken a number of initiatives to try to keep students motivated, including one that aims to give hope to Gaza’s young people. Every effort has been made to create alternative classrooms, while some university students have been able to complete their education online.
We, the Tawjihi students, made repeated efforts to prepare for our exams. The ministry announced in the previous year that the exams would be held in February. Despite the harsh reality and the collapse of everything around me, I remained focused on studying because I saw a chance to advance.
Nothing happened in February. The exams would take place in April, the ministry then announced. However, the unsafe circumstances caused them to be postponed once more. The ministry then scheduled an online exam for 2005 graduates who had either failed their tawjihi or some of its exams in June. They were supposed to have completed this exam in December 2023. The tests were accessible online for about 1,500 students.
I had a little hope that my turn would come as well, but that quickly lost its intensity. We’ve been completely forgotten in the midst of war and hunger, and the Ministry of Education hasn’t provided any updates on the process.
Some readers may wonder why Palestinians are so preoccupied with exams in the wake of a genocide.
Tawjihi is a crucial moment in every Palestinian’s life, one that determines the course of at least the next five years. It determines whether we can enroll in the best universities and pursue our education in the field we want to study.
Tawjihi has a much larger cultural and emotional weight than just academics, though. It is a component of our identity and a sign of perseverance because it is more than just an educational phase. Education allows a small number of doors to remain open in a place where the occupation shuts almost every door.
The day the results of the Tawjihi election are released feels like a third Eid for Palestinians because we observe it like a national holiday. It gives hope to families, inspires pride in entire neighborhoods, and sustains the desire for a better future.
I kept my aspire to study medicine at a prestigious university abroad while anxiously awaiting the tawjihi for many months. As a student affected by war, I kept submitting applications for scholarships and emails to universities across the United States, the UK, and Europe. I pleaded with the university’s administrators to forgo the requirement for a tawjihi certificate.
However, the responses remained painfully consistent: “Unfortunately, we cannot consider your application until you provide your final diploma.”
Not just the other unwanted visitors I have today are helplessness and despair. Another one is “Hunger.” My body and mental health have been destroyed by starvation.
We only get one meal on average each day. Without any vegetables or protein, we primarily survive on canned beans, dry bread, or rice. Our energy levels are almost nonexistent, our faces are pale, and our bodies are weak. Beyond the physical, the effects are. The brain is fogged up by fear, memory is hampered, and motivation is crushed. It becomes nearly impossible to concentrate on a life-changing test like the Tawjihi. When my stomach is empty and my mind is weighed down by worry and fatigue, how can I prepare for the most crucial exam of my life?
I feel as though I can’t help but watch as my youth is being taken from me. While my fellow citizens around the world are reshaping their futures, I continue to suffer undying.
As a tawjihi student trapped in a warzone, I urgently urge international educational institutions to intervene and implement swift steps to prevent the destruction of our right to education.
We don’t have a lot to ask for. Giving us a chance to complete our secondary education in Gaza is more than just a matter of logistics; it is also about justice and future survival.
