Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis
It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.
I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.
Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.
At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.
I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.
When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.
The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.
To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.
An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp
I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.
Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.
I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.
Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.
My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.
Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.
Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.
Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.
A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several
A ceramic artist specializing in sustainable pottery, blending traditional techniques with contemporary aesthetics to create functional art.
