🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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