🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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