🔗 Share this article

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, 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 several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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