“I can’t keep calm. I’ve been chosen for Chevening.”

It’s a little blue poster that Chevening awardees like to be photographed with. I also followed the trend. After all, I, too, was a Chevening scholarship recipient. Or almost was.

Earlier this year, I was selected for the prestigious Chevening Scholarship given out by the British government. I would have had the opportunity to pursue a one-year master’s degree in Clinical Neuropsychiatry at King’s College London, in the autumn. It would have been a dream come true.

But with the Rafah border crossing closed, I was unable to leave. I am trapped in Gaza, enduring the horrors of the genocide. My dream has been shattered, but hope remains alive.

The journey to a dream

I graduated from Al-Quds University’s Faculty of Medicine in July 2022 and officially registered as a doctor just two weeks before this genocidal war started.

I wanted to study abroad to improve my qualifications, but the Chevening Scholarship was not merely an academic opportunity. For me, it represented freedom. It would have been allowed me to travel outside Gaza for the first time in my life, to see new places and experience new cultures, to meet new people and build an international network.

I wanted to do a graduate degree in Clinical Neuropsychiatry because of the relevance of this field to the reality in my homeland. My people were scarred by war, displacement and relentless trauma even before this genocide started. Our trauma is ongoing, intergenerational, uninterrupted.

I envisioned this degree would help me offer better care to my people. The opportunity held the potential to change lives – not only mine but also the lives of the patients I hoped to serve.

With these hopes and dreams in mind, I started filling out the Chevening application in the first weeks of the war. This was one of the most violent phases of the genocide, and at that point, my family and I had already been displaced three times.

Anyone who has undertaken such an endeavour knows it requires not just academic excellence but a lot of effort, too. The application itself demands research, consultations and countless drafts.

I had to work on it while facing myriad challenges as a displaced person – the worst of them was finding a stable internet connection and a quiet place to work. But I persisted. I put my mind to it and kept thinking about a possible bright future while death and suffering surrounded me.

On November 7, three hours before the deadline, I submitted the application. In the following six months, as I waited for a response, I, like the two million other Gaza Palestinians, lived through unimaginable horrors.

I experienced immense pain, losing friends and colleagues, watching my homeland crumble. The oath I had taken as a doctor to save lives felt closer than ever to my heart and soul. I volunteered at Al-Aqsa Hospital’s orthopaedic ward, helping treat people injured by bombs in unimaginable ways.

I would do shifts at the hospital and then deal with the realities of survival in Gaza: queueing up to get a gallon of water, searching for firewood so my family could cook and trying to keep sane.

On April 8, I received the happy news that I had advanced to the interview stage. My thoughts swung between the horror I was living and the audacity to hope for a different future.

On May 7, I sat for my interview. I was fasting for Ramadan and had just finished a long night shift at the hospital, but somehow, I still found the strength to present myself well to the panel.

On June 18, I received the official notification: I had been awarded the scholarship.

A dream gone

I sat for my Chevening interview the day after Israel launched an offensive on Rafah, taking over the only crossing linking Gaza to the outside world. By the time I heard back from the scholarship, I knew that it would be impossible to secure the necessary documents and be able to leave.

I still tried.

The biggest hurdle in the bureaucratic process was that I had to travel to Cairo for a visa appointment. From June until September, I was haunted by anxiety. I waited, helpless, as a deadline for my university offer to be confirmed approached.

I reached out to various authorities and sought help evacuating, but none of my efforts bore fruit. I even contacted the Palestinian embassy in London in a desperate attempt to seek assistance, but by the beginning of September, it became clear that I would not make it. Despite my best efforts, I remained trapped in Gaza, while the opportunity I had worked so hard for slipped away.

In the midst of all this, I continued my work as a doctor. It was both a sacred duty for me and a source of unimaginable heartbreak. I would be stationed at the ER, receiving an unending stream of casualties from the daily bombardment and then move into the operation room to change the dressings of patients with amputations or deep wounds, hoping they would not become infected in the septic conditions of the hospital.

The suffering of our patients got that much worse when we ran out of essential medical supplies. It was then that I had to start cleaning maggots out of the amputation wounds of infants and treat painful war injuries in children without anaesthesia, whose cries I continue to hear in my mind even when I am not in the hospital. Every day, I watch patients suffer and often die due to severe shortages of IV fluids and antibiotics.

The physical and emotional toll is overwhelming. I have been forced to confront death, destruction and grief on a scale that I pray most people will never know.

All of this has put my lost Chevening dream into perspective. I do not have the luxury of grieving personal loss.

My story is not unique – so many dreams have been shattered in Gaza over the past 400 days.

I share my story not to seek sympathy, but to highlight the reality of Gaza. We all face an uncertain future, but we try not to lose hope.

While I am devastated that I cannot pursue my academic dream, I have not relinquished the hope that someday, perhaps, an opportunity to do so will come again. For now, I remain in Gaza, working as a doctor, bearing witness to the daily suffering of my people, and trying to make a difference in their miserable lives amid the ongoing genocide.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.