🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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