🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former 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, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means 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 fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, 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. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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