🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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