🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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