In September 2025, I am supposed to start a new life, not in war-torn Gaza, but in a lecture hall in the United Kingdom. After nearly a year of endless efforts, applications, exams, and navigating bombings, displacement and blackout zones just to apply, I was accepted. Not once, but five times, by the Universities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, Birmingham, Exeter, and Ulster. I even secured funding.
But instead of boarding a plane, I remain trapped in Gaza, a place where war has flattened homes, stolen futures and caged dreams. The bombs have not stopped. Neither has our will. Unlike students in other war-torn areas, we, Gaza Palestinian students, are not being offered any path out. Many countries, such as France, Ireland and Italy, have successfully evacuated their students through government-coordinated efforts and humanitarian corridors, like via the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC). These governments made it clear that their students matter. The UK has not. Despite its global standing and historic reputation for championing justice and education, it remains silent.
This is not just my story. It is a collective cry from dozens of us, admitted to top British universities, with scholarships or personal savings, who survived bombs and sieges only to be abandoned at the final border: there is no visa centre in Gaza to submit fingerprints, and no route out without evacuation.
After the war broke out in late 2023, I was forced to pause my online university studies, as both the classes and the fees became impossible to maintain under the siege. But I did not give up on education. Instead, I began applying to UK universities through UCAS, a process that demanded a carefully written personal statement, recommendation letters, detailed documentation and weeks of waiting. I submitted everything using borrowed internet in relatives’ homes or from paid co-working spaces that I reached on foot, under the midday sun or pouring rain, with no transportation. There were days when I sat on a plastic chair in the street, emailing colleges and researching entry requirements while missiles flew overhead.
When universities asked for English qualification submissions, I had no centre in Gaza to support me, not for training, not even to register. Most UK universities would not accept Duolingo, the only test I could afford and access online. So I stretched every resource and applied for each institution’s approved test, juggling freelance mobile programming by day to support myself and studying English by night, often under a mobile flashlight.
Some tests required constant camera and microphone monitoring, difficult in a war zone where displacement, noise and unstable internet made focus nearly impossible. One infraction and the test would be void. My laptop battery often died before the test ended. But I endured and succeeded.
My family shares this hunger for education. My brother is a mechanical engineer who won the competitive Qaddumi scholarship last year to begin a master’s programme at the University of Liverpool in January 2025, but it has been deferred. My sister was accepted into a Turkish government-funded medical programme at Samsun University, which was also postponed because of the war. Three of us, all with dreams and drive, are stuck in Gaza. We did everything right. So why are we left behind?
After much struggle, I finally passed the tests and converted my conditional offers into unconditional ones. I even secured funding, enough for at least the first year’s tuition fees and living expenses. I was also promised support from private foundations, conditional only on submitting my visa application.
But when I tried to apply for a visa, I hit a dead end: biometric fingerprints. The UK has no visa centre in Gaza. To complete the process, I would need to cross a border that is shut unless I am listed for evacuation. There are more than 100 Gazan students accepted to UK universities, 48 with full scholarships, who face the same deadlock. Many, like me, are running out of time. Inside the UK, institutions like the Gaza Scholarship Initiative (GSI) have stepped in to amplify our voice to the government because they believe in us.
Some have carried their offers from 2024, after universities generously deferred their admission. Most universities, however, will not offer such flexibility again. For all of us, 2025 is our last chance.
Other countries acted.
Ireland coordinated directly with Israel to evacuate its students via the Karem Abu Salem (known to Israelis as Kerem Shalom) crossing. France and Italy did the same. Students were transported to nearby countries to finish visa processing and begin their studies. They understood the stakes, not just academic, but human. These governments coordinated with humanitarian agencies to get their students out, then facilitated visas and asylum claims.
The UK has done nothing similar, despite numerous appeals from students, universities, advocacy groups like GSI, and members of parliament. We have written letters to MPs, university heads and the British Council. Even university leaders who support our admission cannot help unless the UK government steps in.
This silence hurts most because it is not due to incapability. The UK can act but it simply chooses not to. If the government coordinated with Israeli authorities and humanitarian groups like the ICRC, students could be evacuated through Kerem Shalom into Egypt or Jordan, where they could finalise visas and travel.
This is not speculative. It is exactly what other democratic nations have done. The difference? They cared enough to try.
What does this say about whose futures matter?
The UK has invested for decades in international education, offering prestigious scholarships like Chevening and the Commonwealth. It champions learning and opportunity and leads countless international partnerships. But when it comes to Gaza students, who embody that very ethos, we are being forgotten. What message does that send? Does our survival, our future, matter less? Are we invisible to the very system that welcomed us in writing?
I still believe in British education. I am inspired by its professors, challenged by its rigour, and drawn to its diversity and values. I fought for my place there. I hope, not just for me but for my peers, that the UK government remembers its legacy and chooses to act.
Because if not now, when?
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
