Three years before she appeared in a widely circulated photograph of Gaza schoolgirls, Aya Adnan was preparing for university with ambitions of becoming a neurosurgeon. Tall with a dimpled chin and her hijab draped over her shoulders, Aya had excelled academically, scoring 96 percent on her final school exams. Her passion for neurology had deepened during the 11th grade after she experienced severe headaches and dizziness lasting 24 hours. Diagnosed with vertebral pressure affecting her spinal cord, she resolved to study the field.
However, the high cost of medical studies posed a significant barrier for the family. Her father, a social worker for the UN Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA), could not comfortably afford the tuition. Aya turned to her older brother, Yasser, who was 17 years her senior. A lawyer with his own practice, a wife, and three children, Yasser had long supported their parents. Aya described him as a second father figure due to his kindness.
In August 2023, Yasser picked Aya up from Nuseirat to visit the Islamic University of Gaza. Together, they toured various departments seeking an affordable program that matched her interests. When engineering was suggested, Aya declined, insisting she could only envision herself wearing a white coat. They then explored health sciences, and Aya expressed interest in medical laboratory sciences.
Although Yasser recognized that his sister was stepping away from her original dream, he encouraged her to view it as a new beginning. He suggested she could eventually become a professor with a PhD and shared a sentiment that would stay with her: “Sometimes what is withheld from us can be better for us than what is given to us.” Afterward, the siblings enjoyed lunch at Al-Taboun restaurant while continuing to discuss her academic options. Yasser purchased her textbooks and supplies before the war began just days later.
Hostilities severely disrupted Aya’s life. A strike on a neighboring building damaged their family home in Nuseirat, where they had lived for over 35 years, forcing the family to relocate to an aunt’s house. Aya’s focus shifted from lectures to securing water, preparing food, and learning to cook without basic utilities. She also did not know how to build a fire.
Yasser continued to visit the damaged home to check on their belongings and prevent theft. On one occasion, he asked Aya to join him to help clean and tidy the house. She refused, stating she was assisting their mother with food preparation. This ordinary exchange became their final conversation.
On December 12, while the family was gathered for afternoon prayers at their aunt’s house, a missile struck. Minutes later, a friend called to ask about their whereabouts and then inquired about Yasser, who had returned to the home alone. The strike killed him; he was 32.
Aya has reflected often on that last interaction, wondering if her refusal to accompany him altered his fate. Approximately a week after his death, she returned to the ruined house and discovered the plastic bags containing the university supplies Yasser had bought. Despite being covered in dust and ash, some books survived, though many were burned. She rescued what remained, including pens, markers, and colored pencils, and still keeps these items today.
Eighteen months into the conflict, universities introduced remote learning. Aya logged on whenever electricity and internet access permitted, though she noted the immense difficulty of studying a practical major without laboratories or equipment. Her resilience mirrors that of another girl in the photograph who also once dreamed of wearing a white coat.
Studying lab sciences remotely without equipment must be incredibly difficult. How is she managing these days?
I had no idea Yasser was just thirty-two. His sacrifice to fund her education is heartbreaking yet beautiful.
That line, ‘sometimes what is withheld can be better,’ is profoundly moving and so true.