🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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