On September 17, 34 students were evacuated from Gaza to the United Kingdom to begin their studies. Many of them had applied for their visas after I applied for mine. Yet, when I received the news of their exit, I felt joy and peace for them. They were finally safe and on their way to new beginnings. I kept my spirits up, believing that my turn would come soon. But when the next evacuation list arrived on September 29, the shock struck me with crushing force: there were 17 more names on it, but mine was not among them.
I am not the only one facing this mystery. There are at least eight other students in Gaza that I know of who received prestigious scholarships to attend UK higher education institutions many months ago, but despite meeting the eligibility criteria announced by the UK Visas and Immigration (UKVI), they have still not been listed for evacuation.
Our fully funded scholarships at leading UK universities are now at risk – not because our institutions failed to advocate for us, but because of unexplained and inconsistent delays in the evacuation process. My programme at the University of Birmingham officially began on September 29. My place is fully secured, with tuition fees, living costs and accommodation already paid for through a Sanctuary Scholarship. Yet, I am still trapped in Gaza, waiting for confirmation that never comes.
When the first cohort left, I cheered. I told myself, and the other students who were inexplicably left out of the evacuation list, not to compare, not to despair. Each person’s turn would come. The evacuation process had started at last, finally offering a glimmer of hope after months of waiting, applications, interviews and near-constant fear. But then came the next list, including just 17 names. To my disbelief, none of the early applicants who were still waiting were on it. Those being contacted were students who had submitted their visa applications weeks after us. Some had applied just days before their evacuation.
Meanwhile, I refresh my phone day and night, sleeping with it on my pillow in case the government’s email arrives. I have been assured by my university, MP and solicitor that I am indeed eligible – I meet all the criteria, have filled all the forms and cleared all the hurdles. All documents have been sent multiple times to the Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office (FCDO) and the Home Office. My admission is confirmed, my funding is guaranteed and my accommodation is booked, waiting for my arrival. There is no missing paperwork, no unresolved questions. And yet, I wait.
There will perhaps be other evacuation waves. But each new list will undoubtedly contain fewer names. My fellow students and I do not have long to wait. With each passing day, the risk grows that our scholarships – and futures – will vanish.
This ordeal has revealed a deeply troubling lack of transparency in how the names are being included. Why were students who applied later than we did prioritised? Why are the applications of some expedited so quickly that they find their names on an evacuation list mere days after submitting the forms? Why do other applications – like mine – seem forgotten? Why am I, despite meeting every criterion, left behind without explanation?
Nobody, not the universities, MPs, or even the solicitors who know the procedures best, can answer these questions. The process is opaque, leaving me to wonder if I am being pushed further back in the queue each time. My greatest fear – and the greatest fear of every student still waiting to see their names on that all-important list – is that the same pattern will repeat: every new wave will prioritise new applicants while we are indefinitely delayed. Without clarity or accountability, we remain at the mercy of a process we cannot understand or challenge.
It is difficult to describe the psychological toll of this limbo. Each morning begins with the same ritual: check the phone, check the email, refresh the inbox. Nothing. The day passes with updates from friends abroad about lectures starting, while I sit in uncertainty, my dreams on pause. Each night ends the same way: the phone beside me, in case they finally remember me while I sleep. The air here is heavy with frustration, disappointment and despair. Every day of delay is not just a lost day, it is a step closer to losing my place and the chance to continue my education abroad, far from the war. For many of us, this is not simply a delay but a slow erasure of our future – the only lifeline out of the tough reality, and the only hope of rebuilding lives and healing the broken pieces of ourselves.
The University of Birmingham has stood by me, reaching out repeatedly to relevant authorities on my behalf. But the university can only do so much. If I cannot leave now, the consequences will be devastating. These awards are time-bound. Missing the start of the academic year could mean forfeiting the funding entirely. My housing has already been secured and paid for, but if I cannot arrive on schedule, my place will be given away. These are competitive programmes at world-class universities. I worked for years under siege and bombardment, competing with international candidates to win this place. To lose it now through bureaucratic silence would be crushing. The Sanctuary Scholarship I gained, and other initiatives like it, exist to demonstrate solidarity, to prove that education can be a lifeline for those in conflict zones.
I do not ask for special treatment. I simply ask for my visa to be processed. I have completed every requirement and submitted every document. What I lack is transparency about the criteria used to decide who gets evacuated. Why are some students advanced in the queue while others with identical circumstances are ignored? Without answers, I am left disillusioned and exhausted. And without urgent action, I fear my future will be erased.
The clock has already run out. In my last correspondence with the university, I was warned that if I do not arrive by the 17th of this month, I will lose the place I worked so hard for – and with it, the future I have fought for through war, loss and years of sacrifice. I am asking, with everything at stake, for those with the power to act, please do not let our futures be destroyed by silence.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
