The Impact of Tawjihi Exam Results Amidst Crisis in Gaza
On July 27, the Palestinian Ministry of Education unveiled the results of the tawjihi, the secondary education certificate exams that hold immense significance for students and families alike. As tradition dictates, families gathered, anxiously glued to their phone screens, hearts racing, eager to be the first to share the joyful news from the ministry’s website. Celebrations erupted as joyful tears flowed, marking a pivotal moment for many. For countless students, the results were a culmination of months filled with pressure, sleepless nights, and fragile hopes, determining their educational paths and futures.
However, the reality was starkly different for thousands in Gaza. I am among the 31,000 Palestinians born in 2006 who, once again, were unable to sit for the tawjihi exams. For another year, we have been denied our right to education, leaving us stranded in a bleak limbo. This year, nearly 40,000 students born in 2007 find themselves in the same disheartening situation.
Last year, when the tawjihi results were announced, I huddled around a crackling fire in a makeshift tent, too cramped to accommodate the aspirations I held. The frustration I felt then lingered, a constant reminder of the sacrifices, tears, and relentless efforts I poured into my studies during incredibly challenging circumstances. It seemed as though everything I worked for was in vain. This year, the situation feels even more dire. My dreams of continuing my education have been crushed, and now I struggle daily to keep myself and my family alive amidst the devastation in Gaza.
Over the past two years, I have witnessed the systematic destruction of our education system, classroom by classroom. My school, Shohada al-Nusierat, once a beacon of learning and dreams, has transformed from a place of education into a shelter for displaced families and then a target for bombardments. My schoolbag, once filled with notebooks and study materials, now carries essential documents and a change of clothes, always ready for another potential evacuation. The academic calendar, once marked with important dates, has been replaced by a grim timeline of airstrikes, displacement, and the heartbreaking loss of friends and family.
In the face of this devastation, the Education Ministry has fought to maintain some semblance of an educational process, striving to offer hope to Gaza’s children and youth. Various initiatives have been launched to motivate students. Makeshift schools have been established wherever possible, and some university students have managed to continue their education online.
For tawjihi students like me, efforts were made to facilitate our exams. Last year, the ministry announced that exams would take place in February. I remained committed to my studies, clinging to the belief that this was my opportunity to move forward. February passed without any progress, and the ministry subsequently rescheduled for April, only to postpone again due to unsafe conditions. In June, an online exam was arranged for students born in 2005 who had missed or failed their tawjihi exams, allowing around 1,500 students to take the tests. This momentarily sparked hope in me, but that optimism quickly faded as the Ministry of Education has since provided no updates, leaving us feeling forgotten amidst the chaos of war and starvation.
You might wonder why, in the midst of such extreme hardships, Palestinians remain focused on an exam. It’s essential to understand that tawjihi represents a significant milestone in every Palestinian’s life—a defining moment that shapes our educational and career paths for years to come. It dictates our ability to pursue our desired fields of study and gain admission to prestigious universities.
Beyond academics, tawjihi carries profound cultural and emotional significance. It symbolizes resilience in a place where opportunities are scarce. That’s why we celebrate the announcement of tawjihi results as a national holiday; the day feels like a third Eid for Palestinians, instilling hope, pride, and the dream of a brighter future within our communities.
In anticipation of the tawjihi, I envisioned pursuing a medical degree at a prestigious university abroad. I applied for scholarships and reached out to universities across the United States, the UK, and Europe, seeking special consideration as a student affected by war. Yet, the responses were consistently disheartening: “Unfortunately, we cannot consider your application unless you provide your final diploma.”
Today, my struggles extend beyond despair to hunger. The starvation in Gaza has ravaged not only my physical health but also my mental well-being. Most days, we manage only one meal, subsisting primarily on canned beans, stale bread, or rice—lacking essential nutrients. Our bodies are weak, our faces pale, and our energy levels nearly depleted. Hunger clouds my mind, diminishes my motivation, and makes it nearly impossible to focus on studying for a pivotal exam like the tawjihi. How can I prepare for such an important milestone when my stomach is empty and my thoughts are consumed by worry?
I feel as though my youth is slipping away, and I can do nothing but watch as my peers across the globe work toward their dreams. As a tawjihi student trapped in a warzone, I urgently appeal to educational authorities and international organizations to intervene and implement immediate solutions that safeguard our right to education amid the ruins of conflict.
All we seek is a chance to complete our secondary education in Gaza—not merely a logistical issue but a matter of justice and survival for our future.
The views expressed in this article belong solely to the author and do not reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
