🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several