🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed 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 hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several