🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several