For me, and for all Palestinians living in Gaza, 2023 was a year of relative peace.
I was a Tawjihi student (the final high school examination in Palestine) in the scientific stream, dreaming of finishing school with a high average, with my twin sister, Amna, and me together. I did not have a clear plan for what to study afterward; all I knew was that I wanted to achieve a high score to make our parents proud. We have no brothers or sisters, just the two of us, so we felt a deep responsibility to succeed. We studied side by side at the same table. Whenever I felt tired or lazy, Amna would encourage me, and I would do the same for her.
As May arrived, the decisive exams were approaching. The tension grew heavier. We stayed home to study, counting the days; every hour mattered. But without any prior warning, on May 9, 2023, the escalation began. We did not leave the house. Anxiety surrounded us from every direction. We followed the news constantly, hearing who had been killed, who had been injured, and checking on relatives and friends. The fighting lasted five days and finally stopped on May 13, 2023.
Honestly, we barely studied during those days. The atmosphere was unbearable, our books lay untouched. I felt overwhelming anxiety, and the exams were approaching in early June. There was not much time left. But whenever Amna and I looked into our parents’ eyes and saw the quiet sacrifices they made to provide everything we needed, we decided not to give up. If they were doing their part, we would do ours.
The exams began. We went to every exam and asked our parents to pray for us. One by one, we finished them. Then came the waiting, the hardest part. On the night before the results, Amna and I refused to decorate or prepare sweets. We were too afraid. What if disappointment waited for us?
July 20, 2023 arrived. We waited for 9:00 a.m. Time moved painfully slowly. My heart pounded so loudly I thought everyone could hear it. Tears threatened, but I held them back because that wouldn’t change anything. So Amna and I sat together reading the Qur’an, holding our phones, waiting for the message.
At exactly 9:00 a.m., fireworks and celebrations began outside. A message appeared on my screen. I couldn’t open it. I whispered to Amna, very softly, “Did you get yours?”
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
Our parents kept asking if the message had arrived, their voices trembling. We did not answer. Instead, we handed them our phones and asked them to open the results themselves. Amna scored 98%. And then came the surprise, I had the exact same score in the scientific stream. Everyone was surprised, the same number, the same effort, the same reward. But we were overwhelmed with joy. We brought sweets, and relatives came to congratulate us.
Soon, another decision awaited us: choosing the university major. We had already agreed on one thing, to study at the Islamic University. But what field? With such a high average, medicine or engineering were both possible. But there was something we both loved deeply: the English language. After praying Istikhara, a prayer for guidance, we decided to enroll in English Literature at the Islamic University.
We began preparing for university. We bought new clothes, identical as always, one of our twin traditions. We bought identical purple stationery. By some miracle, the university gave us purple bags. On the first day, we were full of excitement. We attended all our lectures, met new friends, and also met our school friends who had enrolled at the same university. We sat in the cafeteria, eating and laughing together, feeling that a new chapter of life had finally begun. After only three weeks, everything suddenly changed when the genocidal war began by the Israeli occupation.
I can not forget the morning of Saturday on October 7, 2023. I was so excited for the university, planning for the courses and preparing my new pink outfit. Suddenly, the sound of explosions and missiles filled the air. I was shocked—really shocked. All my plans, dreams, enthusiasm and happiness vanished completely and I wondered what would happen next. But I never imagined it would become a genocide that will continue for two years.
The past two years have been a real test of the human spirit. While the rest of the world was busy planning trips and dreaming about the future, we were busy planning how to survive: how to protect the elderly and children from the freezing winter and scorching summer in tents, how to provide enough and acceptable food, how to explain the sound of explosions to children, and how to keep hope alive in eyes that have grown too fast. In the past two years, fear was constant. It was always with us. The sound of bombing became part of our day, and worrying about the people we love came before any other feeling when we woke up.
I lost a lot. I lost my childhood home in Jabalia and all my memories there, my sense of safety, and friends who vanished along with their dreams. I lost my friend, Alaa Alsilk, is no longer here; her dream was to be a doctor, but the occupation’s missile was closer to her than her own dream. She was killed, as well as my friend, Marah Obeid, who loved anime deeply and dreamed of becoming an English teacher, was also killed. I lost the simple moments that made life meaningful: Friday family gatherings at my grandfather’s house, a full night of peaceful sleep, outings with friends, and going to university to reach my goals.
Yet, in return, I “gained”—if I may say—an awe-inspiring awareness of human strength. I discovered a strength I didn’t know I had. I learned the importance of appreciating small things: a piece of bread, a sip of clean water, a moment of safety. I realized that humanity is not just a global slogan; it is a person that shares your pain, tears shed in silence for those who will never return, and a blanket shared in the cold.
I learned new meanings for words, I was forced to learn them by war. For example, the word ‘ceasefire’ no longer just means stopping the shootings but also a chance to bury the martyred, or check the rubble of your home, yes the rubble because it’s precious to us. Another word is ‘home’, it doesn’t mean walls around you and a roof but it is any place you can gather with your family members, any place that shelters you. The word ‘exile’ no longer means traveling abroad; it now means living in your own city and feeling that it no longer belongs to you.
And the words “achievement” and “success” no longer mean getting a job or a certificate; they now mean being able to provide enough food, clean water, and suitable shelter for your family. In the genocide, the meanings of words change—they become intertwined with pain and determination.
The Year My Life Split in Two – by Alaa Ahmed Dmeida
Image courtesy of Alaa Dmeida
23 May 2026
