🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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