🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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