🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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 parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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