🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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