🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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