🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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