Bissan Younis stood amidst the wreckage, a landscape of shattered concrete and twisted metal that defined much of the Gaza Strip. Her heart ached as she faced another closed door – another school overflowing, with no space for her son, Kareem. The simple act of learning, of childhood, felt impossibly distant.
For over two years, more than 600,000 Palestinian children have been robbed of their education, their classrooms replaced by the chaos of war. Their days weren’t filled with lessons and laughter, but with the desperate search for water, the constant fear of airstrikes, and the heartbreaking reality of displacement.
A fragile ceasefire now offers a glimmer of hope, a frantic push to rebuild even the most basic structures of normalcy. Humanitarian workers are racing against time to reopen makeshift schools, knowing that education is not merely about academics, but about safeguarding a generation’s future.
The consequences of inaction are terrifying. Without immediate access to learning and support, an entire generation risks being lost to trauma and despair. UNICEF estimates that only around 100,000 children have returned to any form of schooling, a stark reminder of the immense challenge ahead.
The reality on the ground is heartbreakingly basic. Schools, when available, are often little more than tents erected amongst the shelters of displaced families. Supplies are scarce, and even essential items like pencils and erasers are considered “non-critical” and denied entry.
Inside one such tent-classroom in Khan Younis, children huddled together, their faces alight with a desperate eagerness to learn. Their teacher’s voice, a beacon of stability in a world turned upside down, offered a temporary escape from the horrors surrounding them.
The psychological wounds run deep. Juliette Touma, of UNRWA, describes the level of trauma among Gaza’s children as “horrific.” The weight of war, displacement, and loss casts a long shadow, making the simple act of learning an uphill battle.
Even for those who find a place in a makeshift classroom, the scars of conflict remain. Families are still living within the damaged walls of schools, turning places of learning into temporary shelters, haunted by the guilt of occupying spaces meant for education.
Tahreer al-Oweini, displaced with her family, feels the weight of this acutely. She pleaded with a school principal for a place for her children, even offering to provide furniture herself, only to be turned away. “The children forgot everything they learned,” she lamented, “Their life has been getting water, running after aid, war, destruction.”
Sporadic lessons continued even during the fiercest fighting, a testament to the resilience of teachers and families determined to keep hope alive. But fear often kept children at home, the risk of violence outweighing the desire for education.
The longer children remain out of school, the greater the risk of exploitation – child marriage, forced labor, and recruitment into armed groups. The stakes are impossibly high, and the window of opportunity is rapidly closing.
Yet, amidst the devastation, hope persists. Tahreer al-Oweini dreams of a future where her daughters become doctors and engineers, a future built on the foundation of education. “They have ambition,” she says, “But if they don’t go to school, they will have no future.”
Rebuilding Gaza will take years and billions of dollars. But the most urgent task is to restore the lost childhoods, to offer a path towards healing and hope, and to ensure that this generation is not defined by war, but by the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
