'We don’t want pity, we want action'.
A young student, twelve, Khan Younis
It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.
I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.
The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.
At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.
I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.
When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.
Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.
To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.
'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.
An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp
I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.
Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.
I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.
Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.
My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.
A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.
Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.
Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.
Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several
