🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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