Last spring, on May 31, 2023, my eldest son, Hamza, brought a moment of joy to our family when he completed kindergarten and stepped into the beginning his educational journey. My husband and my youngest son attended his graduation ceremony, where he spoke on behalf of his peers, delivering a confident speech in English. Here is an excerpt from his talk:

My respected headmaster, teachers, parents, and friends,

Welcome to our graduation day. I’m Hamza Naseir, a student in Al-Jenen kindergarten. I want to share some of my experience.

We learned many things like the alphabet and sounds and words in English. We had many activities, especially during the olive season. Our teachers helped up mentally and physically. Now we are ready to move onto the first grade. We thank all our teachers and parents who supported us.

Hamza’s courage in front of a large audience filled everyone with immense pride. I remember anticipating the day he would begin school. I had meticulously researched the best private schools and accompanied him to his new school on the first day, capturing every precious moment with my cell phone. I attended a parent-teacher meeting to learn about his progress and searched for his photo among those displayed of distinguished students recognized for their academic achievements.

For his birthday on September 30, I bought Hamza a bicycle to celebrate his transition to first grade. He was overjoyed at the prospect of having a bike just like the older kids. But his excitement was short-lived. He only enjoyed his bike for one week.

War broke out and we were displaced from our home. We left behind Hamza’s beautiful new book bag, unread books, his colored pencils, notebooks — and his precious bike. Each item, part of his everyday life, abandoned in the urgent need of finding safety. Hamza continually asked, “Is my bike okay?” I assured him we would return to our home when the war was over and find his bike.

The extinguishing of education

September first should have marked the beginning of the school year, a time when students wear their freshly cleaned and neatly pressed school uniforms. Excitement should have permeated the air as they carried their new textbooks and notebooks, ready to embark on a new academic journey.

But instead schools have been turned into shelters and classrooms into makeshift homes for displaced families. Books and desks are fuel for fires used for cooking and keeping warm. Many students, teachers, university professors, and civilians have lost their lives or sustained life-altering injuries. My sister, a teacher at an UNRWA (United Nations Relief and Works Agency) school, recalled the first day of the war last fall: “Our school was destroyed. I didn’t even know which of my students was still alive.”

All educational activities have ceased. Any sense of joy has been overshadowed by occupation and war. Even electronic learning has not been a choice in Gaza. We feel extinguished.

The lessons I wanted to impart to Hamza have drastically shifted. Instead of daily lessons about words and numbers, he learned survival skills. He grasped the importance of knowing about water distributions and how to carry and store water so as not to waste a precious drop. Instead of playtime, he learned how to chop firewood. He learned about fire safety, but his greatest concern is knowing when the war will end.

He is not alone. To attend universities and colleges, students have to take the Tawjiwi, or General Secondary Examination. However, the Israeli occupation has prevented 39,000 of students in the Strip from taking this exam. My friend’s daughter would have been the first girl in her family to take the exam. Basma, my youngest sister who is eighteen, completed the General Secondary Examination just before the war. She only studied software engineering for two weeks at Al-Aqsa University before the conflict erupted. Her laptop, purchased on Thursday, October 5, remains unused.

Efforts to keep the flame of learning alive

When September 2024 arrived, mothers in Gaza experienced bittersweet emotions.

The anticipation of a new school year is marred by the harsh realities of ongoing war. Hopes for a future have been replaced by the daily struggle to survive. Many parents are using social media to remember their children who were injured or killed. They share memories and photos from last year, before the war started. Some stories will never be told, as the people who might have shared them are gone. A profound grief blankets this moment.

Although no in-person school was possible this September, the Ministry of Education recently announced the launch of an online platform so students in Gaza could be part of virtual classrooms. Despite successfully registering Hamza, we are grappling with challenges such as poor internet connection and charging issues. However, during these difficult times every effort to keep the flame of learning alive is important.

The last day of September was Hamza’s birthday. I worked hard to find a cake. Most bakeries are closed due to shortages of supplies and electricity.

In the dim light of our temporary shelter, our family celebrated being together. What truly matters is that everyone stays safe. This is my hope. Although innocence has been replaced by the cruel vocabulary of bombs, weapons, injuries, disease, loss, hunger, and death, the strength of our bond keeps our spirits alive. I look forward to the day when I can take my Hamza home so he can ride his bike in the sun.

There is only one word left to say — khalas. Enough!