'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, twelve, al-Mawasi
It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.
I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page 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 dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.
At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.
I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.
When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.
Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.
To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.
'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.
An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza
I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.
Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.
I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.
Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.
My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.
Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.
Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.
All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.
Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several
