From Gaza to Dublin: a journey through war, displacement and hope | Israeli-Palestinian conflict

Dublin, Ireland – When I was accepted into Trinity College Dublin, I imagined a fresh start, new classes, late-night study sessions, and a campus full of possibilities.

The plan was clear: start my studies in September 2024 and finally move towards the future I had worked so hard for.

But when September arrived, Gaza’s borders were sealed, my neighborhood was bombed almost every day, and the dream of college collapsed along with the buildings around me. Trinity sent me a deferral letter, and I remember holding it in my hands and feeling torn in two.

I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken. This letter became a strange symbol of hope, a reminder that perhaps, one day, my life could continue. But everything else was falling apart so quickly that it was hard to believe in anything.

My family and I were displaced five times as the war intensified. Each time, we left something behind: books, clothes, memories, safety.

After the first temporary truce, we returned home for a short time. But it no longer felt like the place we had built our lives. The walls were cracked, the windows were broken, and the floors were covered in dust and debris.

He felt haunted by what had happened.

I knew I had to go

I am the middle child among three siblings. My older sister, Razan, is 25 years old and my younger brother, Fadel, 23 years old.

You might think that being a middle child spares you, but during the war I felt responsible for them. On nights when the bombings shook the building and fear crept into every corner, I tried to be as stable as possible. I tried to comfort them while I was shaking inside.

Then, in April 2025, my name appeared on a small shortlist of people allowed to leave Gaza. Around 130 people could then cross the border, dual nationality holders, family reunification cases and a handful of others. My name on that list seemed unreal.

The morning I approached the crossing, I remember the long, tense line of people waiting, grabbing documents, holding bags, shaking their children’s hands. Nobody spoke.

When two IDF officers questioned me, I answered as firmly as I could, fearing that something, anything, would go wrong and they would send me back.

When they finally waved me through, I felt both relief and guilt.

I didn’t call home until I arrived in Jordan. When my mother heard my voice, she cried. Me too. I told him I was safe, but I felt like I had left a part of my heart behind.

My family now lives in Khan Younis and still experiences chaos.

I arrived in Amman on April 18, my heart heavy with the weight of what I had escaped. The next morning, I took a flight to Istanbul, without anything around me feeling real.

The sounds of normality, the laughter, the announcements and the rustling of bags were shocking after the incessant bombing. I lived in a world where every sound could signal danger, where the air was filled with fear and uncertainty.

I felt like a ghost wandering in a world that no longer belonged to me.

Finally, after hours of flying, waiting, checking and watching departure boards, I landed in Dublin. The Irish air was pure, the sky incredibly open. I should have been happy, but I was engulfed by overwhelming guilt, the joy overshadowed by the pain of separation.

I wasn’t completely alone. A Palestinian colleague from Gaza had arrived in April 2024 and two friends were also in Ireland. There was a tacit understanding between us.

“You acknowledge each other’s trauma without saying a word,” I often tell people now. “It’s in the way we listen, the way we sit, the way we behave.”

Back in Gaza, my daily life was reduced to pure survival: running, hiding, rationing water, checking who was alive. The bombings hit every day, and the night was the worst. The darkness makes every sound closer, clearer.

We don’t sleep during war. You wait.

On those nights, the silence was deafening, punctuated by the distant echoes of explosions. I lay awake, straining to hear the danger.

The darkness enveloped me like a suffocating blanket, amplifying every creak of the building, every whisper of the wind.

During the day, people on the street moved quickly, their eyes bright, alert.

Water was a precious commodity; we queued for hours at distribution points, often to receive only a fraction of what we needed. It was never enough.

No human should live like this

Five times we fled in search of safety, packed within minutes, our hearts pounding with fear.

In a building where dozens of displaced families resided, people slept on thin mattresses, shoulder to shoulder. Children cried softly, adults whispered, trying to comfort each other, but each explosion outside sent waves of panic through the rooms.

No human being should have to live like this, but millions of us have.

As I sit in Dublin, I carry with me the weight of my family’s struggles, a constant reminder of the life I left behind.

The guilt of surviving is a heavy burden, but I remain hopeful that one day I can return and help rebuild what was lost.

Even now, far from Gaza, I feel it. You do not leave the war behind you; you carry it with you like a second heartbeat.

I look at a world that I’m not yet a part of

I often stop in classes on campus. Not just because they are beautiful, although they are, but because I need these moments to remind me that I survived.

The children’s laughter here seems foreign, a reminder of the joy that has been stolen from so many.

Walking around Trinity College today feels surreal. Students laugh over coffee, rush to class, and complain about homework. Life goes so easily here.

I text my family every day. Some days they respond quickly. Other days, hours pass with no response. These silent days feel like torture.

But I am determined. Being here is rebuilding a life, honoring the people I left behind.

Survival has weight.

I carry the dreams of those who could not leave. This responsibility shapes the way I move through the world; calmer, more grateful, more aware.

I hope that one day I can bring my family to safety. I hope to finish my studies, rebuild my life, and use my voice for people still trapped in war.

I want people to know what it takes to wait in line at the border, leave everything behind, and walk toward a future alone.