'We seek action, not sympathy'.
A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter
For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.
I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.
Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.
Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.
At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.
I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.
When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.
Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.
'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.
Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp
I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.
Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.
I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.
Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.
My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.
A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.
Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.
Throughout this territory, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.
Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several
