🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside 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 beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several