🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page 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 reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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