'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 stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.
I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.
Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.
At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.
I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.
When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.
Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.
To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.
'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.
Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp
I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. 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 purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.
I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.
Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.
My school became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.
Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.
Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.
All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.
A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several
