DayofPal– In Gaza, where destruction has become a grim constant, education stands as a beacon of defiance. Despite the bombings, the displacement, and the relentless attempts to sever their ties to the past, Palestinians cling to learning—not just as a right, but as a lifeline to their identity and their dreams.
For Ghada Aqeel, professor of political science, says in article on Al Jazeera that her journey in education began in a humble school in Khan Younis refugee camp.
Those classrooms, she describes, weren’t merely spaces to learn; they were portals connecting her to fellow Palestinians across the occupied West Bank, Jerusalem, and beyond—to the poets, writers, and thinkers who kept the Palestinian history alive in exile.
“Education wasn’t just knowledge; it was the thread that wove Palestinian fragmented nation together.”
Palestinians have long been celebrated for their commitment to learning. Known as the best-educated refugees, according to a report from the Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics in 2018. They boast some of the highest literacy rates in the world.
“Education isn’t merely a tool; it’s the heartbeat of our story, a defiant assertion of our existence,” she says.
The annual tawjihi exams, a high school milestone, are more than academic events. They are moments of collective pride, celebrations of perseverance that echo across Gaza and the West Bank.
But in 2024, for the first time in decades, tawjihi was silenced during the war. There were no exams, no celebrations, only the crushing weight of Gaza’s decimated education system.
Yet, even amid genocide, Palestinians refuse to relinquish the pursuit of knowledge. This spirit is embodied by Ghada’s cousin Jihan, a civil society worker with a master’s degree in diplomacy and international relations.
Living in a displacement camp in Al-Mawasi with her three daughters, Jihan made the best out of her tragedy. With a solar panel and a hotspot, she created a charging station where students could access the internet.
Among those students are Shahd and Bilal who are relatives of her husband. Their universities lie in ruins, yet their determination remains intact. Shahd, a multimedia student, and Bilal, a medical student, walk for hours to Jihan’s station to charge their devices and download coursework.
Each journey is fraught with danger—drone strikes often target young men like Bilal. To protect him, Shahd sometimes makes the trip alone, carrying both their phones.
Shahd dreams of graduating and bringing hope to her family, especially her father, who is battling cancer in a healthcare system on the verge of collapse.
“Every step feels like a gamble,” she told Ghada, adding that “But I hold on to the hope that graduation will change something. It’s my way of resisting.”
“I’ve seen people burned, disfigured, evaporated, and even left for stray animals to find. I’ve seen body parts hanging from power lines, on rooftops, or transported by animal-drawn carts or carried on shoulders. I pray this isn’t how I’ll die. I must die in one piece with my mother able to bid me farewell, and to be buried in dignity,” she added.
The mass killing of students and the destruction of schools and universities is a tragedy anywhere in the world. But in Palestine, where education represents far more than a basic right or aspiration, such attacks strike at the heart of our national identity.
Palestinians’ resilience isn’t new. During the First Intifada, Israeli authorities closed all universities in Gaza and the West Bank, imposing curfews and turning schools into battlegrounds. Yet, even then, Palestinians found ways to learn. Makeshift classrooms emerged in homes and mosques, and professors risked arrest.
“Yet, even amidst such attacks, education became an act of defiance. In 1989, I joined 18,000 other tawjihi students in Gaza, studying relentlessly to achieve the high marks required for prestigious degrees like medicine or engineering.”
“When I succeeded, my family celebrated with simple but heartfelt joy—my father brewed tea, bought a box of Salvana chocolates, and shared our happiness with neighbors. But that moment of triumph was short-lived. With universities closed, I was forced to wait five long years to pursue my education, clinging to the hope of resuming my studies.”
Israel understands this deeply. The devastation of Gaza’s education system has been a deliberate strategy to erase Palestinian identity, history, and intellectual vitality.
The term scholasticide, coined by scholar Karma Nabulsi during the 2009 war on Gaza, encapsulates this ongoing reality. Scholasticide refers to the deliberate destruction of indigenous knowledge and cultural continuity—an attempt to sever a people from their collective intellectual and historical identity.
Today, the situation is even more dire. Gaza’s 12 universities are in ruins, and nearly 90% of schools have been damaged or destroyed. The physical annihilation of infrastructure is compounded by attacks on the legitimacy of educational institutions.
In late October, Israel effectively banned UNRWA, which operates hundreds of schools in Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem, further threatening the future of Palestinian education.
Yet, Palestinians continue to resist this systematic erasure. “Education is not just about survival; it is the fabric that weaves together our nation, connects us to our history, and builds the foundation for liberation.”
Ghada says when she thinks of the destruction of Gaza’s education system and the students who persevere despite unimaginable odds, she recalls the words of Samih Al-Qasem, the Palestinian poet of resistance, in his 1970 poem Enemy of the Sun:
“You may plunder my heritage,
Burn my books, my poems,
Feed my flesh to the dogs,
You may spread a web of terror
on the roofs of my village
O Enemy of the Sun,
But I shall not compromise,
And to the last pulse in my veins,
I shall resist.”
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