I never imagined I would be forced to evacuate once again—especially not from Al-Mawasi, the area ironically designated as the “humanitarian zone.” At the time, I was preparing for my master’s thesis defense, coordinating with my supervisor to set a date for the online discussion. What preoccupied me most was how to obtain a printed copy of my thesis, as one of the examiners had specifically requested a hard copy. It seemed like such a small, simple request—but in the middle of war, nothing was simple.

I started writing my thesis before the war, managing to finish the first two chapters in a more stable time. The rest, however, I had to write amid the chaos of war and displacement. It took me much longer than expected—not just because of the circumstances, but because I wasn’t fully myself. The forced displacement disrupted everything. I was forced to move seven times, living in an UNRWA school, in tents, and even on the streets like what happened to me in Rafah on 25th of December, 2023. It was winter, though luckily not rainy. I still remember the cold dew settling on the blue cover I used to wrap around myself to stay warm. On the morning of that night, I woke up and hurried to check on my laptop, which I kept inside my backpack. I felt moisture on it, wiped it quickly, and, with a deep breath, powered it on. Thankfully, it still worked—though some keys had stopped responding because the dew had seeped inside. Days later, after we set up the tent and got a little settled, I tried to find someone who could repair it, but there was no one doing so due to the electricity outage. So, I ended up buying an external keyboard just to keep going.

Days passed in anxious thought. Every printing shop had been destroyed in the ongoing war. Eventually, I took my friend Mohammed and set out on a quest to find anyone who could print documents. We wandered from place to place, asking passers-by, until someone directed us to a man operating a printer from inside a tent. We found him, and I asked him to print a single copy. The cost was exorbitantly higher than what it used to be before the war—but I had no choice. The price was several times what it normally would have been, but the value of that copy, to me, was priceless. It was the tangible proof of years of hard work and hope. I wish I could have been able to get several copies of it. 

With the copy in hand, we set off to deliver it to the examiner who had requested it. We walked long distances under the scorching sun, across dusty roads lined with rubble from bombed-out homes, until we finally reached him. Then, we returned to the shelter we had been displaced to weeks earlier.

During this period, I began preparing the presentation required at the start of the defense, as per university protocol. I tried to block out the relentless bombardment and focus on the task. This defense meant the world to me—I had dreamed of this moment for years. But focus was elusive. It wasn’t only the ceaseless shelling; my empty stomach made it worse. I hadn’t eaten properly in days. No flour had entered Gaza for over three and a half months. Hunger gnawed at me constantly, a sharp reminder of the larger cruel siege around us.

On top of that, I was emotionally broken seeing my mother, lying listlessly on her mattress, drained of energy. My mother, in her sixties, suffers from diabetes. She couldn’t take her medication—it requires proper, balanced food. My younger brother, Rafiq, and I would stay by her side, trying to lift her spirits, to soothe her suffering. My heart ached watching her in that state. Despite her pain, she encouraged me to press on with my studies. That’s who she is—resilient and selfless.

Still, I gathered myself, fueled by my family’s warmth. I revised my thesis and finalized the presentation. I was just waiting for my supervisor to confirm the defense date.

This thesis was never just a degree requirement—it was a culmination of every sleepless night, every internet outage I’d worked around, every book I had to review page by page through unimaginable suffering. It was about the Palestinian narrative, about reclaiming the right to speak and be heard in academic spaces. I had envisioned defending it in a large classroom, maybe with applause, maybe even with my mother watching cheerfully and proudly. Not like this—not online, not surrounded by misery, not while hungry.

Then, one morning, I walked to the solar-powered charging shop nearby, as I often did to charge my laptop. I noticed people’s pale, haunted faces. They spoke in whispers, some to themselves. I sensed something terrible had happened. My heart tightened. Soon, I received the news: military operations were expanding near our area.

The following days were sheer terror. Explosions rocked the air. Ambulance sirens wailed. Families screamed. Sleep became impossible. Eventually, we received a call at our shelter—an urgent order to evacuate westward immediately. We rushed to check on each other, gathered what few belongings we could carry, and left on foot. We all knew too well the consequences of delay.

We kept walking west until we reached the farthest part of Al-Mawasi. Night was falling. Thankfully, we had a tent and managed to pitch it. Many others weren’t as lucky—they slept in the open streets. The scenes were heart-breaking.

As night darkened, I lay on the mattress I managed to carry with me. My body ached. My spirit ached even more. I stared at the ceiling of the tent and wondered: Are we invisible? Does anyone see us? 

I also wondered what it means to pursue education under bombs. Is it resistance? Is it madness? Or both? I think of the other students like me—some in Rafah, some in Jabalia—who had exams, deadlines, hopes. Where are they now? What thesis lies buried under rubble? What ideas were never defended? If the world cannot hear our screams, perhaps it will listen to our pages—if we can keep them safe long enough to be read.

Questions I ask myself with every displacement—and never find an answer.

Yahia Al Masri is a Palestinian linguist and writer from Gaza, specializing in Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA) and political linguistics. He holds a master’s degree in English linguistics and conducts research on how language shapes power, resistance, and representation—especially in discourses surrounding Palestine. His writing blends personal testimony with analytical insight, aiming to challenge dominant narratives and affirm the lived realities of oppressed communities.