🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page 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, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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