🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents 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 expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several