🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, 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 central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals 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 new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

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

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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