🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years 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 raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed 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 attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several