'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Children and Educators on Two Years Without Education.
'We don’t want pity, we want action'.
A young student, 12, Khan Younis
For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.
I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.
Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.
Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.
At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.
I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.
When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.
Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.
'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.
Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp
I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.
Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.
I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.
Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.
My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.
A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.
Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.
Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.
Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several
