🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, 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 central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several