🔗 Share this article

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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