🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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