A Gazan journalist’s story: ‘By day, I covered the horrors of war. At night, I worked on my thesis by candlelight’

A suit salvaged from the rubble of my destroyed home in Khan Younis. A pair of shoes patched up because I had no others. A 500-page PhD thesis written in a tent for displaced people in Al Mawasi, Gaza. These fragments of resilience brought me on October 30 to a modest room in the Strip’s telecommunications authority, where the internet was strong enough to connect a shattered Gaza to Cairo, Sudan, and Ramallah for the defense of my PhD thesis.

The day should have been a happy one. But it took place against the deafening backdrop of war.

After years of seemingly endless efforts, the committee’s words echoed through the room: “We award Mohammed Omran Alastal [Mohamed Solaimane in his journalistic alias] the highest degree of distinction in Media Studies, with the recommendation to publish his thesis as a reference for future researchers.” The announcement was bittersweet: an acknowledgement of triumph, delivered at a moment devoid of celebration.

The room was silent, save for the hum of the generators and the timid applause of the handful of witnesses, unlike the typical signs of celebration one might expect. My audience consisted of three friends who had braved the dangers to be there. Absent were my wife, our five children, and my elderly parents. The threat of air raids and the risks of travelling through war-torn streets had prevented them from attending. Their absence weighed as a stark reminder of how conflict had eroded even the simplest joys.

The journey up to that point had been harrowing. Doing a PhD is difficult and stressful under the best of circumstances; in Gaza, it became a near-impossible feat. Internet access was a rare luxury. To communicate with my supervisor in Cairo, or download essential research materials, I often walked miles to places with stable connectivity. Electricity, available only a few hours a day, dictated my schedule. Charging the laptop often meant queuing up at community generators or relying on neighbors’ solar panels.

Even finding paper to print the thesis was a test of endurance. The blockade had left local shops short of supplies. It took days of searching and scavenging to gather enough pages. Each sheet became a symbol of rebellion against a system designed to stifle our aspirations.

For more than four years I have been combining the life of a journalist, a family man, a university professor, and a determined student. But over the past year, juggling these tasks in the midst of displacement and war has made even the most mundane tasks seem unimaginable.

By day, I covered the horrors of war, reporting live and in-depth, meeting deadlines and rigid broadcast schedules. By night, I worked on my thesis, often in darkness or by dim candlelight. The constant sound of drones and the sporadic rumble of airstrikes were relentless. My children, terrified by the chaos, clung to me for comfort. Sleep was scarce; determination was my fuel.

After the defense, I walked home, carrying my thesis and laptop. Strangers congratulated me, mistaking my outfit for a wedding suit. When I explained why I was wearing it, their responses were encouraging: “That’s more important than a wedding: you’re a hero”

Mohamed Solaimane

Amid all this was the never-ending search for ever-dwindling food, clean water, medicine, and other necessities for a family of seven, plus my elderly parents and other displaced relatives whom I help support. All this time, only those closest to me knew of my aspiration to pursue a PhD degree amid these endless massacres. I spared myself any discouraging — though understandable — comments about how life is too much of a luxury to even think of improving.

It was precisely these feelings that drew stares of astonishment and bewilderment as I walked to the headquarters of the Gaza telecommunications authority in my navy blue suit on the day of my defense. I did not think about how much attention I was drawing from weary people as I made my way along roads strewn with rubble and houses reduced to piles of stones.

The suit had come from my own bombed-out home. My wife, her brother, and a friend had worked tirelessly to retrieve it from the rubble. The shoes I was wearing had been carefully repaired, a necessity turned into an emblem of persistence. As I climbed the stairs of the telecommunications office, an employee explained why people were staring at me in amazement. “A suit after all this? You are proof that hope endures,” he said with a smile.

The logistical hurdles in organizing the defense were immense. My supervisor joined from Cairo, the examination committee connected from Sudan, and the Ministry of Higher Education participated from Ramallah. Gaza’s precarious internet connection and Sudan’s own crisis made the possibility of disruptions very real. Yet miraculously, the defense went off without incident.

My thesis, entitled Representation of Civil Society Organizations in New Media and Attitudes of Palestinian Elites Toward These Organizations, examined the complex relationship between the media and civil society, and offered ideas for improving their interaction. Completing it in the middle of war and displacement was a test of perseverance and the unbreakable human spirit.

After the defense, I walked home, carrying my thesis and laptop. Strangers congratulated me, mistaking my outfit for a wedding suit. When I explained why I was wearing it, their responses were encouraging: “That’s more important than a wedding: you’re a hero.” For a brief moment, my achievement became theirs, a glimmer of hope in the midst of despair.

The reunion with my family was very emotional. My mother, frail and approaching 80, cried as she hugged me. “I dreamed of being there,” she said, “but thank God you made it despite everything.” My father, a man of few words, held me in his arms, deeply proud. His sacrifices, his unwavering faith in the value of education, had been the foundation of my success.

The celebration was low-key, reflecting the stark reality of life in Gaza. But the achievement had profound implications, not just for me, but for all who saw it as a triumph of resilience over adversity. It was a reminder that even amid devastation, dreams are worth pursuing, and that the human spirit, however battered, remains unbreakable.

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