When I landed in Ireland on August 29 after a two-day sleepless journey from Gaza, I felt something I had not tasted in a long time, hope.
I had come from a life shaped by war, fear, and uncertainty, into a world where I could finally imagine a future. Even as I stepped into safety, I carried the weight of everything I had left behind.
The most challenging moment of leaving Gaza was not the travel itself. It was the Israeli-controlled checkpoint in the south, where I was held for nearly thirty minutes after my friends had already crossed.
We were allowed to take nothing but our phones, chargers, and important documents.
Leaving Gaza physically, was possible. Leaving emotionally was not.
Before stepping onto the evacuation bus, I looked back at my family, memorising their faces as if it might be my last chance. My mother tried to smile, but her eyes said everything. My father kept repeating the same words: “Stay safe, don’t look back.”
Yet I did look back.
I kept looking until they disappeared.
Arriving in Limerick brought relief, but also a new kind of fear. Every message notification could be bad news from home.
Loneliness grew around me, and the language felt like a mountain I had to climb every day. Even simple things, like buying groceries or asking for directions, felt overwhelming at first.
I didn’t know how to describe a bus stop or how to understand an Irish accent. The silence at night was unsettling.
I wasn’t used to a quiet sky.
But I was not alone for long.
Two people at the University of Limerick became anchors in my new beginning: Philip Desmond and Ronni Michelle
Philip, the Student Engagement and Support Officer, told me something I still carry with me today. “Every student deserves to feel welcomed and safe
“You belong here, Hamza. We will walk this journey with you.”
His sincerity became a source of strength. He didn’t just offer help; he offered space to breathe, to settle, and to feel human again.
Ronni, the Associate Vice President of Student Engagement, with her kindness and constant support, reminded me that even far from home, I could still find community.
“Your story matters,” she told me. “You deserve a chance to breathe, grow, and dream again.”
Their encouragement helped me rebuild my confidence. I asked questions in class, introduced myself to new people, and learned to trust my voice again.
I started forming friendships, slow at first, then naturally. Some classmates would sit with me after lectures, asking about Gaza, about my life, and about how I was settling in.
They treated me as a human being, not just a war story.
When classes started, something inside me shifted, it felt like my life was born again. Like I was learning how to live all over again.
Walking across campus became part of my healing. I loved the Living Bridge, the White House, the quiet walk to the library, and the way the trees swayed when the wind picked up.
Even the rain had its own calming rhythm.
I began to notice things I never had the chance to notice back home, small things like how students laugh loudly between lectures or how strangers say, “How are you?” even if they don’t know you.
As international students, many of us carry two worlds inside us: the world we escaped and the world we are trying to build.
We balance homesickness, cultural challenges, and the pressure to succeed while carrying memories that never fully fade. Sometimes I study in the library while checking my phone every few minutes, afraid of what might appear on the screen.
Sometimes I cook food that reminds me of home just to feel close to my family again.
But UL helps. Language support, counselling, academic guidance, and cultural programs make the journey less overwhelming. There is always someone willing to explain, to listen, or simply to sit with you in silence when words are too heavy.
Philip once told me, “A university should be more than a place to study. It should be a community where everyone belongs.”
And here, slowly, I am learning to belong again.
Being an international student is not just about studying abroad. It is about discovering new parts of yourself, learning how to start over, and healing from the places where life once broke you. It is about building a new life while still being shaped by the one you left behind.
Some days are easy; some days feel impossible. But every day, I remind myself that I survived for a reason.
Every lecture, every conversation, every peaceful walk on campus is part of my rebuilding. I am studying not only for myself but also for my family and for the people back home who still dream of safety.
I hope that someday I will be able to give them the peace that I found here.
Limerick is not the end of my story. It is where a new chapter begins, one filled with healing and resilience.
Most importantly, the belief that life can start again, even after everything.