Life in Gaza has changed so much that even time feels disrupted. Homes and neighbourhoods have been destroyed , leaving students to face not only visible loss but also the collapse of education and uncertainty about their future.
Many students once saw universities outside Gaza as a way to continue their studies, but this path is now blocked. Since May 2024, Israel's military control over southern Gaza has made the Rafah crossing — the main exit point — heavily restricted.
With travel rules constantly changing and scholarship opportunities abroad limited, thousands of students cannot plan their next steps.
As a result, daily life is no longer measured in semesters or graduations but in waiting for permits, for borders to open, and for opportunities to reach them. Each delay prolongs uncertainty and freezes their futures, leaving education and ambitions on hold.
Although a ceasefire between Hamas and Israel was reached in October 2025, the crossing remained mostly closed to civilians for months, under strict Israeli security and limited coordination.
However, when it partially reopened in February 2026, it brought little relief for most Palestinians.
Still, movement was heavily restricted, with only about 80 people crossing daily, mostly urgent medical cases and their relatives.
For students, workers, and families seeking reunification, the partial reopening made little difference, as access now depends on strict and unpredictable eligibility rules rather than urgent need, leaving their futures uncertain. A dream built on numbers The impact of these restrictions is clear in the story of Kamel Rami, a Palestinian student from Al-Nuseirat refugee camp in central Gaza. A scholarship offer arrived at a moment when time itself felt suspended.
Kamel's high school experience in the summer of 2024 did not follow a normal academic path. Life was dominated by genocide , displacement , and constant uncertainty.
He studied whenever he could, often in crowded shelters or at relatives' homes after his house was damaged, while noise, fear, and exhaustion, along with explosions and families seeking safety, kept disrupting his studies.
"I was trying to focus on physics equations while the ground shook beneath me, and revising mathematics lessons in rooms filled with people who had lost everything. Food shortages and water scarcity made even simple concentration a struggle," he told The New Arab .
Months of worsening humanitarian conditions made education fragile and fragmented, dependent on short, unpredictable periods of calm. His mother tried to hide her anxiety, while his father repeated a daily message: education was the only way out.
"When the results were finally announced, I scored 89 percent," Kamel recalled. "The achievement brought a brief sense of relief, but it also opened a door that immediately felt hard to reach."
The scholarship offered a chance to study electronic engineering in Pakistan, a field Kamel is associated with rebuilding and technical recovery.
"For a brief moment, I believed the war had not fully taken my future," he said. "But that moment quickly gave way to a long wait. Travel depended on the Rafah crossing, which has remained mostly closed and tightly controlled, with only very limited movement for urgent humanitarian cases."
Nearly two years later, Kamel has not left Gaza. His scholarship is still valid but increasingly uncertain, suspended between administrative rules and a border that allows only rare passage.
Eventually, he made a reluctant decision. He enrolled in a local university to study accounting, a subject he does not feel connected to.
"I did not choose this path because I wanted it," he said, "but because I could no longer afford to lose more years."
Financial pressure influenced the decision, as his family could barely cover basic needs, let alone pay for higher education. Between scholarships and sealed borders Hafez Al-Rayes' experience shows the same pattern of stalled plans. He graduated in 2023, just as the genocide began to reshape Gaza's education system .
Like many students, he believed he would leave for university abroad on time. In 2024, he received two scholarships, one from Turkey and another from Romania, offering hope of a structured academic future.
However, the closure of the Rafah crossing and strict travel restrictions made leaving impossible.
"Today, my life is stuck in repetition," Hafez told The New Arab .
"While friends abroad move through semesters, internships, and graduations, I find myself working intermittently to support my family's basic needs."
"There is a feeling that life has paused for me alone," he added. "Everything around me is moving, except my own timeline."
On 20 April 2026, Kamel and Hafez joined hundreds of students in a protest calling for the opening of Rafah. Handwritten signs reading "We want our right to education" and "Our future is in danger" highlighted the growing frustration of students stranded in Gaza.
Both still keep their university admission documents at home. Hafez now sees them not as papers but as reminders of a future that should have begun years ago and remains on hold. Academic life at a standstill For Lujain Shaqoura, 21, from Gaza City, the closure of Rafah also disrupted her plans.
She had been accepted to study medicine in Egypt in 2024.
Her goal was not only personal but also to help a health system already short of doctors and equipment; however, as she said, "The closure of the Rafah crossing changed everything. Two years later, I am still in Gaza, unable to travel."
For Lujain, the delay is not just practical but also psychological, as time passes while her academic life remains at a standstill.
To stay connected to medicine, she follows online lectures and reads medical texts, maintaining a link to a future that now feels distant as uncertainty persists, particularly regarding the validity of her university acceptance.
"We are not asking for special treatment," she said. "We are asking for the right to study, the same way any student anywhere can, without being stopped at a border." A return that became a rupture As for Mohammed al-Najjar, 24, he had been studying medicine in Ukraine but returned to Gaza in 2023 for a short visit, expecting to resume his studies.
The outbreak of the genocide and closure of crossings turned that visit into a permanent displacement. He never returned to Ukraine and lost both his place at university and his scholarship.
"I thought I was coming for a few days… I never imagined I would be stuck here," he said.
Months passed as he watched classmates graduate while he remained unable to continue, and, as he said, "The psychological toll was severe, with isolation and a growing sense of guilt towards my family, who had celebrated my academic success."
He eventually enrolled in a medical school in Gaza and transferred some credits. But he describes his education as fragmented and no longer aligned with the path he had carefully built. A system under strain, a generation on hold Currently, about 2,000 students in Gaza need to travel abroad to complete their studies, but daily movement through the Rafah crossing is very limited — often fewer than 150 people — due to strict and inconsistent regulations.
Even before the outbreak of the genocide, Gaza's higher education system was under pressure. The territory had 18 universities and colleges serving approximately 87,000 students, most of whom have now suffered from damaged infrastructure and repeated disruptions, according to the education ministry.
The ongoing genocide has intensified these challenges, as the Israeli army killed more than 6,000 students and over 100 university professors , according to Gaza-based government media, leaving the academic community reeling.
For students unable to leave, the crisis is not just about mobility. It is about the collapse of the education system, which once structured daily life and offered continuity amid conflict.
Mohammed Shubeir, a law professor at Al-Azhar University in Gaza, said the issue goes beyond administrative delays.
"What is happening is not only a travel delay, but a structural denial of a fundamental right: access to education without political or geographical barriers," he said.
He warned that the disruption could leave Gaza without a generation of trained professionals.
"The uncertainty itself becomes a burden," he said. "Students live between hope and frustration. This prolonged suspension affects motivation, mental health, and social stability."
Ultimately, for him, the problem is bigger than the rules — it affects an entire generation. Sally Ibrahim is The New Arab's correspondent from Gaza