🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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