🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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