'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Children and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of School.
'We seek action, not sympathy'.
Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis
For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.
I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.
Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.
Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.
At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.
I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.
When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.
Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.
To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth deserve books, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.
'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.
Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp
I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.
Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.
I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.
Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.
My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.
Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.
Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.
Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.
Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several
