🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person 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 words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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