🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of 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 apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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