The Lebanese Republic: ‘They Would Shake, Sob and Retreat from the Windows’
A Young Educator, Twenty-Four
I was newly appointed instructing at a educational institution in the Bekaa valley when war broke out in September 2024. In a matter of days, an military attack damaged my family home. One minute we were eating lunch, soon after the structure were collapsing around us and on top of my car outside. I had spent a long time setting aside money for that Honda Civic, so when I saw it destroyed, I was overwhelmed in tears.
My family, like many others, were had to evacuate to a more compact living space. The institution quickly shifted classes online to make sure the relocated could attend. I was teaching a foreign language to grades 5 and 6 with about a classroom full in each class. Their images would appear intermittently on the monitor, lagging when the internet was bad.
Participation was required, but many of the students found it challenging to focus. After one especially intense bombing, a guardian turned on her child’s microphone and started shouting at me: “How can you continue? They’re unable to be in a condition to learn. They need to rest.” It was impossible I could say to reassure her.
Immediately after the truce was reported, people came back to what was remaining of their houses. My family covered our walls with plastic sheets, trying to keep out the cold, while I started commuting to school again. Physical classes restarted, but the environment had changed completely.
Even after the ceasefire, bombings continued to intermittently strike the region, forcing the youngsters to live in a permanent situation of anxiety. Unexpected sounds – like a door closing loudly or an something hitting the floor – triggered the children. They would tremble, become tearful and move away from the windows, afraid a explosive might land and shatter the glass. When unmanned aircraft buzzed overhead, they avoided to sit near the openings at all.
Sketching homes that had been destroyed assisted them see that something lost can also be rebuilt
I recall one day, after a sudden sound occurred, a child started weeping. He exclaimed at me, “I refuse to die in class. I want to die next to my family.” Another child started crying when the word “parent” came up in class – he had lost his father during an airstrike.
During these episodes, I set academics aside to concentrate on their mental health. We had no resources for specialized courses, so I adapted my teacher training and my own research about emotional support.
One exercise involved the students sketching of the houses that had been destroyed. I then asked them to draw them repaired, surrounded with nature, beauty and community. It encouraged them see that something affected can also be healed.
At times I used straightforward “introductory” questions to help them open up. If they were hesitant to speak freely, I created stories and asked my students to complete them, so they could communicate their feelings through another persona. For the most severe cases, we sought help from a counselor.
When the academic term finished in the summer, many of the children were still deeply impacted. They kept telling me they could not see a future away from the conflict, which made them question whether schooling was valuable anything at all. Our next academic session commences in a couple of weeks, so I have just been hoping that they were able to recover and heal during the time off.
A West African Nation: ‘I Meet Youngsters Who At Times Journey for Considerable Time … on an Without Food’
An Educator, Twenties
Each morning I go through the faded blue gates of the school, where the book room, technology lab and science room remain closed for inadequate equipment. Since overseas aid stopped previously, my staff and I contribute money to buy necessary items. In the dusty courtyard, where students gather at morning every morning, the banner flies at the top of a pole.
After a government overthrow in recent years, this symbol is all that remains of state investment in our institution, where we host nearly a one hundred pupils per group. Some sit four or five to a table, while the most sit on the bare surface.
At the secondary school, pupils come from across the Zinder region. Last year, at the start of the educational period, we welcomed more than 400 children evacuated from Nigeria, fleeing attacks. Many have stayed reserved since arriving, deeply disturbed after seeing relatives taken and guardians harmed in frequent attacks. Others, especially boys, were drawn in by militants, which thrives on ignorance.
Last year, according to reports, nearly eight hundred schools remained closed in Niger. Some affected institutions are in regions close to neighboring areas, but there are others in certain regions, bordering a nearby country, where displaced people are fleeing the spread of militants in the east of the country.
Regularly, we try to turn our classrooms into secure zones. We built makeshift shelters we call “coverings” in the school courtyard to teach the additional learners.
Young women’s absence levels are distressing, worsened by violence, assault and widespread early marriage.
I want to say they are secure at classes, that they can educate themselves here without worry – especially the young women. They are the tomorrow of our nation
Last year one of my pupils, Barkatou, thirteen, stopped coming to class to get married. I went to see her household. With a bedridden father and a mother caring for her multiple dependents by selling basic goods, she represents the main financial support for her parents.
I discussed to them the value of learning and the necessity of their daughter’s future for the economic future of the family.
Other children like her do not even have a roof over them. Many get by by soliciting with containers before returning to abandoned houses.
Nevertheless, every morning I meet children who sometimes walk for extended time, often on an without food, to reach classes. Their bravery and perseverance give me the strength to keep instructing.
It was also what gave me the strength to convince the student’s parents and her spouse so that this year, after a year out of school, she returned to class. I saw her smile when she came back, {proud|ple
