Israel’s genocide has destroyed Gaza’s schools, forcing children into labour, trauma and a daily struggle for survival. Restoring education is essential to protecting a generation from permanent harm.
By Rida Thabet
For generations, Gaza’s schools were far more than just brick-and-mortar buildings with blackboards and desks. They were the vibrant heartbeat of the community. In these classrooms, education went hand-in-hand with character building. Schools were safe spaces where children learned not only how to read, write, and solve equations, but also how to share, collaborate, and belong. The daily routine of the school yard reinforced a rich social fabric—one rooted in Palestinian collective values. In these spaces, childhood was protected, and the spirit of community was passed down from one generation to the next.
Today, relentless war and repeated forced displacement have shattered those safe spaces. As families are uprooted from their homes and forced into overcrowded displacement camps, the physical and social structures of everyday life have collapsed. Under the crushing weight of severe scarcity, the deep-seated spirit of solidarity that once defined Gazan society is under immense strain.
When survival becomes the sole priority, social norms inevitably shift. In the camps, a neighbour is no longer seen as a partner in a shared life, but as a direct competitor for life’s most scarce resources: a jerrycan of clean water, a piece of bread, or a small patch of shade under a tent. The collaborative environment that classrooms spent decades cultivating has been replaced by an unforgiving landscape driven by survivalist individualism, where young children are forced to shoulder adult burdens to keep their families alive.
The tragic depth of this shift is visible in every corner of the shelters. Not long ago, I saw a young girl sitting in the dust, her fingers skilfully rolling cigarettes to sell for a few coins. Just two years prior, I had watched that same girl shine on stage during a spelling competition for fifth graders.
In Nuseirat, I met a boy who recognised me from his former school in western Gaza, where he used to study. Today, he wanders barefoot through the camp, his hair bleached and burned to a copper tint from months living under the harsh coastal sun in a tent by the sea. Skinny and exhausted, he earns pennies by pulling a partially destroyed wheelchair to transport heavy groceries for shoppers.
Traumatised Children
A displaced mother described to me her children’s contrasting traumas. “My son who watched his father killed by shelling laughs all the time,” she said. “My other son, who didn’t witness anything, started wetting himself.”
These are not isolated stories; they represent a fundamental erosion of childhood. Without functioning schools, primary-grade children—particularly those in grades 1 through 5—are suffering massive learning losses. Thousands of young students have missed fundamental milestones in basic literacy and numeracy, putting an entire generation at risk of dropping out of education permanently.
Yet, the damage extends far beyond missed academic lessons. Schools provided a critical framework for psychological stability and temporal continuity. Deprived of a structured school environment, children are trapped in a closed temporal circle of immediate danger and uncertainty. The future no longer feels like a space for dreams or ambition. During a drawing activity in a shelter, when asked to draw himself five years in the future, one young boy simply drew a grave with his own name, softly explaining: “I’ll definitely die before I grow up.”
To adapt to constant threats, children’s nervous systems undergo a profound shift. Emotional numbing becomes a necessary defence mechanism, a way to suppress unbearable sadness and fear just to keep functioning day after day. One child said: “I don’t cry because, if I did, I wouldn’t be able stop.” Many of the people I know keep saying: “No time for grieving; we will do that later.”
Over time, this chronic overload erodes a child’s ability to express empathy, build secure friendships, and process complex emotions. When survival forces a child to shut down their emotional life, the capacity to trust others and work together begins to fade.
On top of all this, medical screenings for six-year-olds, which is a requirement for registering in virtual schools, now routinely include tests for abdominal and groin hernias—a direct consequence of young children lifting heavy water jerricans day after day.
Healing this profound rift requires an approach that goes far beyond simply handing out textbooks or administering standardised tests. It requires restoring the protective, humanising heart of the community within learning spaces.
Rida Thabet is an education specialist working for the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) in Gaza, Palestine.