🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several