🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years 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 participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child 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 expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, 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 world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit books, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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