'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Children and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.
'We don’t want pity, we want action'.
A young student, 12, al-Mawasi
For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.
I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.
The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.
Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.
At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.
I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.
When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.
Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.
'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.
An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp
I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.
Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.
I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.
Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.
My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.
Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.
At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.
All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.
A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several
