🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several