🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris 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. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several