🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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