'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.
Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi
It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.
I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.
Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.
At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.
I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.
When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.
Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.
'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.
Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza
I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.
Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.
I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.
Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.
My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.
Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.
Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.
All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.
A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several
