🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several