🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several