🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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