🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, 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 central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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