As a Teacher in Gaza, I Saw Education Bring Hope. Israel Has Extinguished It. |
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This article is an excerpt from Gaza: The Story of a Genocide edited by Fatima Bhutto and Sonia Faleiro. This text was originally published by Verso in 2025 and has been reprinted here with permission. The following belongs to Chapter 8, “On Teaching in Gaza,” by Eman Basher.
I used to be an English teacher. My classroom walls seemed to breathe with the wind, and the light depended on the mercy of the sun; a very eco-friendly setup, if you think about it. Who needs electricity when the sun graciously decides to show up for class?
For eight years, I taught in Beit Hanoun Prep School for young girls; a place where optimism stubbornly thrived in conditions that would make even the most dedicated teachers elsewhere quit by lunchtime. Beit Hanoun, the closest city to the Israeli settlements in Sderot, was the first to face evacuations during escalations. The village I worked in was often referred to as “Bora,” meaning “wasteland” in English, a grim nickname earned from the relentless bombing by Israeli warplanes.
In this battered corner of the world, poetry, stories, and literature were the tools we used to carve out moments of imagination in a world that often felt like it had none to spare. I introduced my ninth graders to Maya Angelou, Mahmoud Darwish, and Langston Hughes. And let me tell you, when a fourteen-year-old in a war zone starts dissecting the nuances of “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” you can’t help but marvel at the irony. These weren’t just students; they were young women whose lives were already laced with feminist resistance. They didn’t need lectures on empowerment; they lived it every day, walking miles to school, clinging to their books as though education could physically shield them from the chaos outside. And maybe it did, if only for a few hours. They wrote stories in which women were heroes and poems that raged against injustice, all while the world shrugged and called them statistics. In that drafty little classroom, with sunlight doubling as our electricity, these girls found power in words, even when the world seemed hell-bent on silencing them. It was absurd, really, that the most fragile place could also be the strongest, but that’s Gaza for you — a place where hope is the ultimate act of defiance.
In Gaza, education has long been a beacon of hope amid adversity. For many girls, attending school is a cherished opportunity, even when resources are scarce. Classrooms often lack basic amenities; it’s not uncommon for students to sit on the floor due to a shortage of chairs. Despite these challenges, these young women engage passionately in their studies, including lessons on feminism and empowerment. My girls came to school without lunch boxes, without raincoats, and on foot. To a class that did not have enough chairs and tables and often leaked on heavy rainy days. Yet, they came. And kept coming. And insisted on coming. I used to look at their combed ponytails and pretty hairclips and see them as tiny freedom fighters, little super women who do not have the luxury of three meals a day yet would always come to school with combed hair and clean, ironed clothes. And I wanted to offer them the fine education they deserved. I would give my life if I could. They put every effort into learning so that they might have a future. Yet, the world offered nothing in return.
However, after the genocide began, even this fragile system crumbled. Schools have been reduced to rubble, with over 200 facilities targeted by airstrikes. The tiny joy of learning is replaced by the fear of death. The absence of basic necessities — like water and hygiene products — has forced young girls into indignities unimaginable in classrooms elsewhere. Dreams once nurtured by education are now buried under debris and stolen by violence. The contrast is stark: what was once a glimmer of hope is now a sobering reminder of what has been lost — a generation deprived not only of education but of the dignity and safety that should come with it.
For Gaza’s Students, Exams Are Far More Than a Test. They Are Hope for a Future.
The recent escalation of violence has made their already difficult lives unbearable. With infrastructure destroyed, severe water shortages have forced some girls to cut their hair just to maintain basic hygiene. The lack of sanitary products has left them using improvised materials, stripping away the dignity they deserve. These deeply personal struggles are rarely noticed by the global community, overshadowed by the broader narrative of conflict. How can these girls be expected to focus on their education when the world reduces them to mere objects of control; when something as personal as their hair is stripped away without care for their dignity, when their schools are targets instead of sanctuaries, and when their humanity is overlooked entirely? In such a reality, pursuing education becomes more than learning; it becomes a fight to hold on to their identity.
As I write this, I stand in the Arts and Sciences building at the University of Wyoming, where the hum of electricity is constant, and the Wi-Fi buzzes louder than my own thoughts. In September 2024, my professor invited me to be a guest speaker in one of his classes to talk about Palestine. Sensing my apprehension, he reassured me, saying, “They know nothing about Gaza, and that’s exactly why you should start telling your stories.” The absurdity of it all struck me: I survived a genocide funded and supported by the United States last February, and here I am, in September of the same year, preparing to lecture American students about the very country complicit in it. It’s hard to think about standing in front of a classroom and explaining the reality of Gaza to students whose biggest worries might be grades or deadlines — when my own students back home, the ones I taught in Gaza, can barely dream of such normalcy.
How do I convey that to these American students, whose world feels so far removed from the one my students live in? How do I even begin to tell them about a place where every child is a walking testament to resilience but also a reminder of the world’s failure? And then there’s me; someone who taught in Gaza but now stands in this surreal position, trying to bridge two worlds that should never have collided this way. It feels obscene, trying to translate devastation into digestible lessons, as if it’s just another academic exercise. How do I put into words the reality that while I speak, my mom lives in a tent and my students back home write essays about survival instead of Shakespeare?
I can’t help but feel the absurdity, the heaviness of the irony: to be asked to educate about Gaza while knowing the very education my own students deserve is stolen from them every day. Words can’t feed the hungry or stop Israeli tanks from crushing the bodies of our children. I feel like I’m living in a twisted form of dark comedy, where the punchline is always despair. Words are supposed to matter, as in satire or political commentary. Think of how dark comedy uses humor to navigate the unbearable — yet even humor feels hollow now. There are no punchlines that can soften this pain, no clever lines that can undo the damage. It’s like using poetry to rebuild bombed-out buildings or trying to wield sarcasm as a shield against missiles. The absurdity of it all is overwhelming. Attending my students’ funerals instead of their graduation parties is overwhelming.
In Jenan’s story, there wasn’t even a funeral to attend. Jenan Al-Masri, an eighth grader who embodied everything education is supposed to nurture: hope, ambition, and the courage to dream beyond the confines of oppression. Before the genocide began, Jenan had been chosen to give a speech about peace. Peace. The concept she believed in, the word she was preparing to speak to the world, was stolen from her by the very forces she hoped to see subdued. On October 21, 2023, an Israeli airstrike killed Jenan, her parents, and two sisters, leaving behind a single surviving brother to mourn them. She never got to deliver her speech. The irony is gutwrenching — she dreamed of standing before others to advocate for peace, but her life was extinguished by the violence she sought to end.
Jenan’s face haunts me daily. It mirrors the stolen dreams of so many students I’ve taught, students who’ve scribbled their hopes in notebooks as bombs fell outside their windows. I think of Jenan and wonder: What if the world had listened? What if the world had cared enough to see her not as a statistic but as a child; a poet of peace, a future doctor, artist, or teacher? This question challenges the tendency to reduce human lives to numbers, ignoring the extraordinary potential that thrives in the most unlikely places. Gaza’s education system is a testament to this potential, achieving remarkable success against all odds.
Despite being under blockade, facing constant attacks, and suffering from severe shortages of resources, Gaza boasts a literacy rate of over 97 percent, one of the highest in the Arab world. Classrooms are overcrowded, power outages are frequent, and teachers often work without pay. Yet, students excel in national and international exams, earning scholarships to universities around the globe. In recent years, Gazan graduates have entered fields from medicine and engineering to law, art, and education, proving that even in a place ravaged by war, knowledge can flourish.
The girls I taught in Beit Hanoun Prep School were part of this legacy of determination. They clung to their books with a conviction that education could change their futures.
Farah Nusair had an insatiable curiosity for literature, often staying after class to ask about the hidden meanings behind poems. She once wrote a breathtaking essay about hope, weaving metaphors that felt far beyond her years. Malak Kafarneh possessed an analytical mind and a love for problem-solving. Her favorite moments were when she could break down complex ideas in science lessons and explain them to her classmates, her face lighting up with every “aha” moment. Doaa Masri was a budding artist. Her notebooks were filled with intricate sketches, and she had a remarkable talent for turning historical lessons into vivid illustrations, helping her peers see history through her eyes. Lena Ashour had a natural gift for storytelling. She loved creative writing assignments, crafting tales that transported her classmates to other worlds, her vivid imagination painting images more colorful than reality. Dima Nusair had a sharp wit and a talent for debate. She would challenge ideas in class, always with respect but with a hunger to explore perspectives that others hadn’t considered. Jenan Al-Masri was a quiet yet brilliant presence. She had a love for numbers and excelled in mathematics, often solving problems faster than anyone in the room, her shy smile revealing her pride when others clapped for her. Each of these girls had a spark that promised a future filled with possibility, a reminder of the infinite potential that was so cruelly extinguished.
The tragedy is not just in the lives lost but in the futures stolen. These children were dreamers and doers, equipped with resilience to turn education into opportunity. What could they have become if the world had cared enough to protect their right to dream? If Gaza’s education system can produce this brilliance in the face of unimaginable adversity, imagine what could be possible if these children had the same resources and freedoms as their peers elsewhere.
More than 50,000 children have been killed or injured in the Gaza Strip since October 7, 2023, according to UNICEF, amid widespread airstrikes by the Israeli military. Hundreds more are reported missing and may be trapped under the rubble. These statistics represent not just numbers but the silenced voices of students who once aspired to learn and lead. Their stories underscore the urgent need for global attention and action to protect the fundamental right to education, even in the most challenging circumstances.
Nothing prepares a teacher to attend the funerals of her students, one after another. There’s no greater sense of defeat than standing before a class of young women, speaking of hope and peace, filling them with the belief that they are the promise of a better world — only for that world to hand them a tent the next day.
Maybe that’s the cruelest lesson of all — that I’m here, lecturing about resilience when the world did everything in its power to crush it.
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Eman Basher is a Gazan writer, former English teacher, and graduate assistant with a passion for storytelling and resistance through words. A mother of three, she has published work in Vice magazine, Electronic Intifada, The Washington Post, and Vittles. Her writing explores Palestinian identity, history, and survival, often shaped by personal experiences and the ongoing struggle in Gaza.