Universities are struggling to survive, students are disappearing from classrooms, and higher education is becoming an impossible luxury
I opened my phone in the morning, scrolling through the messages I had received overnight. That’s when I came across an email from the Islamic University of Gaza announcing that registration for the second semester had been extended from April 1 to April 9, along with a reduction in fees. Students could now pay an initial installment–about $200 out of $600.
I skipped the message. As if I had read nothing at all.
That might seem strange to my family, my friends – even to myself – especially since I ranked third in my class during the first semester, with a GPA of 93.7 in a demanding major like electrical engineering. But today, I’m making a decision that may sound irrational: I will not continue my university education – at least not in Gaza.
Since childhood, I’ve had an intense desire to seek out new experiences – ones that raise my adrenaline, that I could one day tell my children about, and that give life a different meaning. I used to repeat a line from a song I love: A hundred bad days make a hundred good stories.
I believed that even if studying abroad would be difficult – even “bad” at times – it would still be an experience worth having.
Studying abroad was always at the top of my dreams: a new language, a different culture, even a different kind of architecture. Since I was young, I’ve been fascinated by both European and classical Islamic architecture.
But since the genocide began, those dreams have turned into attempts – emails sent to universities across Europe and the rest of the world. I started reaching out to universities even before finishing high school, asking about any opportunity or scholarship to continue my education. The replies almost always began with one word: Unfortunately.
In October 2025, I finally graduated from high school with a 94.6 average. I thought doors would open. They didn’t. I didn’t receive a single scholarship.
Dreams Deferred
Three or even four age cohorts – those born in 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007 – compete for the same scholarship. Sometimes, undergraduate and master’s students compete for just five or ten spots.
Under pressure from my family, I enrolled at the Islamic University of Gaza, in case I failed to secure a scholarship. I chose electrical engineering and began my first semester.
But I found everything – except a university education.
The university announced that classes would be held online until conditions improved, with three temporary locations available for in-person attendance across Gaza, mainly for medical and engineering students.
Due to the high cost of transportation – and because in-person learning lacked even the most basic elements – I chose to study online. There were no laboratories, no library, no cafeteria where students could meet. There was no real campus – only a collection of rented halls.
Online learning wasn’t any easier. I had to pay extra just to access co-working spaces with stable internet, because lectures were uploaded in low quality yet still consumed large amounts of data. Even then, the experience was ineffective.
So I tried attending in person.
I walked into a hall packed with around 300 students. There weren’t enough seats, and some students had to stand throughout the lecture. It wasn’t even a university hall, but a wedding venue rented temporarily. Many students could barely see the board. There were no desks, so we wrote on our laps. The microphone barely worked, and the professor’s voice kept cutting out.
I couldn’t adapt. I went back to online learning – but that proved no easier. How can I study from a lecture recorded five years ago, with no interaction? I couldn’t ask the professor questions, couldn’t discuss ideas with classmates, couldn’t even confirm whether my solutions were correct.
A friend told me things would get better, so my curiosity pushed me to try again. But this time, the hall was nearly empty – only about 20 students.
Between the beginning and the end of the semester, most students had disappeared – some unable to handle overcrowding, others unable to balance studying with the realities of daily life in Gaza, and many simply unable to afford transportation.
This time, I could ask the professor questions. But it no longer felt like a university – it felt like a private lesson.
An Education Crisis
None of this is due to a lack of effort from universities in Gaza. They are trying to continue under impossible conditions. With around 58,000 high school graduates, institutions have been forced to absorb unprecedented numbers of students, even as most facilities remain destroyed or unusable.
The Islamic University – once among the top universities in Palestine – can no longer provide even the most basic elements of education. Other universities, like Al-Azhar, Al-Quds, and Palestine University, are not in much better condition.
And because of the lack of funding and support, tuition fees remain largely unchanged. Even before the genocide, they were already a burden due to limited job opportunities and low wages. Now, with widespread unemployment and rising costs of basic needs like food and shelter, university education has become a luxury.
Many high-achieving students can no longer afford to continue their studies. They cannot cover tuition, transportation, books, and basic supplies on their own. After a full semester, the picture became clear to me.
What we are experiencing is not just difficulty in education – it is a true education crisis, part of a broader humanitarian emergency.
That is what led me to my decision: I will not continue into the second semester. Instead, I returned to searching for opportunities abroad. I sent dozens of applications and managed to secure offers from universities in Italy, Germany, the UK, and France.
But acceptance means nothing without the ability to pay. Some universities in the UK asked for as much as £33,000. Even in Europe, where education is more affordable, the costs remain far beyond reach. And so, like thousands of students in Gaza, our dreams begin to shrink. Until they become nothing more than a possibility. An attempt. A roll of the dice.
If it works, it could change my life. If it doesn’t, it will simply be another attempt–one of hundreds that came before and thousands that may still come after.