🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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