🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, 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 education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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