Ahmad Abushawish Prism
I walk across the University of Birmingham campus, heading to the library to prepare for tomorrow’s maths quiz. It has been a long day of lectures, trying to absorb every new concept, keep up with my studies, and find my place as a freshman while getting to know new people. My mind has been occupied from one moment to the next, leaving little room to think about anything beyond the next thing on my to-do list.
I step into the library. It is so quiet that I can almost hear my own thoughts. And in that stillness, it suddenly hits me: I am finally living the academic life I dreamed of for years while growing up in Gaza.
Then another thought creeps in, making this achievement feel bittersweet: At what cost?
Studying abroad was a dream I’ve had since childhood, a longing to widen my horizons beyond the long-standing Israeli blockade of Gaza. For someone like me, who dreamed of working with satellites and modern communication networks, pursuing higher education abroad felt like the only way to realize that ambition.
After years of hardship—and in the middle of an ongoing genocide—I finally secured an offer to study engineering in the United Kingdom. I had imagined this moment as a victory over the restrictions that had constrained my future. Yet, as the opportunity became real, I began to understand that reaching it would come at a deep cost, including leaving behind my family and facing the humiliation of Israeli checkpoints.
The U.K. government gave me just seven days’ notice before my departure date. Suddenly, a future I had spent years dreaming about was no longer a distant possibility, but days away.
I spent that time with my family, trying to grasp what it meant to leave them behind. I am the eldest son in a family of seven, and my father has been living in Europe for nearly a year. Throughout the genocide, I had carried much of the responsibility for keeping our family going. Now, I was leaving the people who had relied on me through some of our darkest days.
My family was happy for me. They encouraged me to imagine the bright future that awaited me in the U.K., and I knew how much they wanted me to have the opportunity I had worked so hard to secure. Their happiness gave me strength, but it could not silence the fears I carried inside. While they pictured my new life, I would lie awake through sleepless nights, wondering how my family would cope with possible evacuations, finding water, buying food, or managing the endless practical struggles of surviving another day.
At 9 p.m. on Sept. 14, it was time to leave. My whole family gathered to say goodbye. Everyone was in tears. It was difficult to process that—after everything we had endured together—I was about to begin a new life more than 2,000 miles away.
I carried the only small bag I was permitted to take. It contained my official documents and a little money, almost nothing that resembled what one would normally pack when leaving home to begin a new chapter. Israel imposed restrictions on what travelers could take, which meant leaving behind clothes, electronic devices, and the ordinary personal items that connected us to our lives in Gaza. I began the journey with almost no physical reminders of the life I was leaving behind.
We remained on the bus for nearly two hours before the Israeli authorities allowed us to proceed to the next location. There, we waited for another four hours before we were allowed to move forward. The hours dragged on, and our departure unfolded through a succession of waiting periods, each dependent on permission from Israeli officials to take the next step.
As we moved along the road, tents stretched across the landscape, and the destruction of Gaza was visible everywhere. Yet what struck me most was what happened when we crossed Rafah.
I was displaced to Rafah for three months in 2024. During that time, the city had become familiar to me. I had memorized its crowded streets, such as the al-Awda roundabout, a major junction connecting Rafah to other areas farther inside Gaza. It was a city that had taken me in when I had nowhere else to go, a place where I had tried to make a temporary life amid the genocide.
Now, as our bus moved through, I could barely recognize anything.
The city that had once sheltered me had vanished. Now, I found nothing but vast, flattened expanses of land. Israeli attacks had stripped the city of the buildings and landmarks I remembered. What had once been familiar streets and lively neighborhoods had become little more than rubble.
We eventually arrived at the Karam Abu Salem border crossing, where humiliating procedures began. We were instructed to remove our shoes and belts as part of the security checks. Some women were told to pull the hems of their inner tops out from inside their trousers, despite wearing abayas that fully covered them. No part of their bodies was exposed, yet the instructions felt deeply invasive, where even our dignity seemed beyond our control.
Each of us was then given a colored bracelet bearing an individual number. Being identified by a number was another reminder of how dehumanized we were and how little control we had throughout this process.
I began settling into my new surroundings and adjusting to university life. Yet, I still cannot get used to the guilt of having left my family and my people behind.
After several more hurdles and a flight, I finally arrived in Birmingham. Gradually, I began settling into my new surroundings and adjusting to university life. Yet, one thing I still cannot get used to is the guilt of having left my family and my people behind. While I am attending lectures, making friends, and building the future I had dreamed of, I cannot escape the thought that I am living a relatively normal life while my loved ones remain in Gaza, enduring a reality I was fortunate enough to escape.
I carry that cost with me, alongside the hopes that brought me here and the people whose absence reminds me why this opportunity means so much.
Prism investigates systems of power through the experiences of communities most affected by injustice, connecting their stories to the forces shaping their lives. Explore its independent reporting.
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