🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several