🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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