🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. 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 express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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