🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered 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 preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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