🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, 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 learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several