🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve books, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several