Tahani Y. I. Ghiad

Home, to me, is having my whole family together, surrounded by safety, with a house to return to at the end of the day where we can rest in peace.
I lost that home all at once—when I lost my father, when our house was destroyed, and when I was separated from my city, Rafah.
Since then, I have stopped searching for a homeland in geography. My homeland is now in the embrace of my loved ones and in a longing that never fades.

From the beginning, I was determined to follow a clear path toward my dreams.
In high school, I set excellence as my goal, and I achieved it.
I continued my academic journey in accounting, a field I had always wanted to pursue.
Though life’s pressures weighed heavily on me during my early university years, I refused to settle for less than what I promised myself.
With persistence, and with my father’s constant support, I graduated with distinction.

Along the way, I joined several training and volunteer programs in Gaza, including “Tamayoz,” “Hult Prize,” “Bridges to the Future,” and “Wasla.”
I became a member of community committees, led initiatives such as “Shoulder to Shoulder” and “Guidance Tent,” and participated in accountability tours and youth projects.
But the success did not last long—I suddenly lost my greatest supporter, my father.
Then the latest assault deepened the pain, reshaping life as I knew it. We lost our home, were displaced multiple times, and Rafah became a painful memory rather than a place of belonging.

Despite border closures and the difficulties of reality, I continue to seek a scholarship abroad.
I believe education is my window to the future.
Even through loss, I did not stop. I began working in project coordination, combining my accounting background with my dream of pursuing a Master’s in International Finance.
As a person with partial hearing loss, I also strive to be a voice for others like me.

In my work with Mayasem Association for Culture and Arts as a project coordinator, I was close to displaced families in Gaza, sharing their struggles.
That drove me to design and carry out humanitarian and relief projects during the assault, providing support in education, food, infrastructure, and psychosocial aid.
Through this, I tried to ease suffering and rebuild hope.

I aspire to represent Palestine in international forums and carry with me the stories of Gaza’s youth—those who create hope from beneath the rubble.
My journey has not been easy, but it has shaped me.
The determination and willpower my father instilled in me, strengthened by my experiences, keep me moving forward.

In a society burdened by economic, social, political, and educational crises, challenges are part of daily life.
With ongoing assaults, the suffering has deepened, testing us in painful ways.
As someone with partial hearing loss, I nearly lost the rest of my hearing from the sound of bombings and explosions.
Even with protective measures, the damage was severe.
Unfortunately, there are no institutions in Gaza that provide proper hearing aids for my condition, making communication, learning, and daily work even harder.

The closure of the border for months denied me educational and professional opportunities abroad.
Still, I continued working to serve my people and lead humanitarian projects.
Life in tents, high prices, and lack of essentials turned daily routines into constant struggles.
Yet I chose to believe that going to work every morning was not just a job—it was an escape from life in tents, and a message of hope I held onto.

I felt my inner strength most clearly at two key moments in my life.
The first was when I managed to raise my university grades significantly, overcoming emotional and social challenges, and graduating with distinction.
The deeper moment was during displacement and loss—losing my father and our home—yet continuing my humanitarian work without pause.
That was when I realized strength is not the absence of pain, but the ability to move forward despite it.

I want my story to give a voice to those who feel forgotten, who think what they lost ended their path.
I want to send a message: people are not defined by their pain, but by what they choose to create in spite of it.
In Gaza, we were not given survival—we chose it.
No doors of hope were opened to us—we built our own windows.
My story is not an exception but a reflection of what many young men and women here live every day.
I believe that in every experience of pain, there is a seed of light.
If watered with faith and determination, it can grow into new life.
That is why I share my story: so that someone out there may realize they are not alone, and that what feels like an ending could be the beginning of something greater.