🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate 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 amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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