The Lebanese Republic: ‘They Would Shake, Cry and Retreat from the Openings’
Mohamad El Dirany, 24
I had just started educating at a learning center in the valley area when war broke out in late 2024. Shortly after, an bombing raid destroyed my childhood house. At one moment we were having a meal, then the structure were collapsing around us and over my car outside. It took me three years setting aside money for that Honda Civic, so when I saw it ruined, I became emotional in tears.
My family, similar to other families, were had to evacuate to a reduced accommodation. The institution quickly transitioned classes to virtual sessions to make sure the relocated could participate. I was instructing French to pre-teens with about three dozen pupils in each group. Their faces would appear intermittently on the display, lagging when the internet was poor.
Being present was required, but many of the students found it difficult to focus. After one especially intense attack, a mother unmuted her pupil’s sound and started speaking angrily at me: “What is the point? They’re unable to be in a frame of mind to learn. They must have to rest.” I had no words I could say to console her.
Once the halt in hostilities was reported, people returned to what was still standing of their homes. My family repaired our building with temporary materials, trying to keep out the cold, while I started commuting to the institution again. Physical classes restarted, but the mood had changed completely.
Following the pause, strikes continued to intermittently strike Bekaa, forcing the children to live in a permanent situation of fear. Loud disruptions – like a abrupt noise or an something hitting the floor – distressed the children. They would shake, become tearful and retreat from the windows, afraid a projectile might fall and break the glass. When unmanned aircraft hovered overhead, they avoided to sit near the glass at all.
Drawing dwellings that had been ruined assisted them see that something lost can also be restored
I remember one day, after a sudden sound occurred, a student started sobbing. He screamed at me, “I don’t want to die in this place. I want to die next to my family.” Another child started crying when the word “parent” came up in discussion – he had mourned his guardian during an airstrike.
At such times, I set the subject aside to focus on their mental health. We had no resources for specialized courses, so I adapted my teacher training and my own study about emotional support.
One task involved the students creating images of the dwellings that had been damaged. I then asked them to depict them restored, surrounded with nature, beauty and people. It allowed them see that something affected can also be healed.
On occasion I used simple “icebreaker” questions to help them share. If they were unable to speak directly, I created stories and asked my students to finish them, so they could communicate their emotions through another persona. For the most severe cases, we collaborated with a mental health professional.
When the educational period ended in July, many of the children were still affected. They kept saying me they could not see a life away from the conflict, which made them doubt whether schooling was valuable anything at all. Our new school year begins in a short time, so I have just been hoping that they were able to unwind and heal during the time off.
Niger: ‘I Meet Students Who Often Journey for Hours … on an Empty Stomach’
An Educator, Twenties
Each morning I walk through the faded blue gates of the school, where the resource center, digital space and laboratory remain closed for insufficient equipment. Since overseas aid stopped a while back, my staff and I pool money to buy essential materials. In the sandy courtyard, where learners gather at morning every morning, the national symbol flies at the top of a pole.
Since a political takeover in mid-2023, this emblem is all that remains of public support in our academy, where we host nearly a many pupils per session. Some sit multiple to a workspace, while the most sit on the bare surface.
At this educational center, pupils come from across the local area. Last year, at the start of the school year, we welcomed more than four hundred children evacuated from Nigeria, fleeing conflict. Many have stayed reserved since arriving, affected after seeing family members kidnapped and guardians executed in ongoing attacks. Others, especially young men, were pressured by extremists, which grows on lack of education.
Last year, according to reports, nearly 800 schools remained shut in Niger. Some affected institutions are in regions close to Nigeria, but there are others in Tillabéri and Tahoua, bordering another nation, where refugees are fleeing the presence of militants in the east of the country.
Regularly, we try to turn our educational environments into protected areas. We built temporary structures we call “hangars” in the school courtyard to teach the additional learners.
Female dropout rates are distressing, worsened by aggression, abuse and widespread child marriage.
I want to say they are protected at this institution, that they can learn here without anxiety – especially the girls. They are the future of our country
Last year one of my students, Barkatou, thirteen, stopped participating to get married. I went to see her relatives. With a bedridden father and a mother feeding her family by selling basic goods, the student represents the main economic resource for her parents.
I clarified to them the importance of learning and the importance of their daughter’s schooling for the prosperity of the family.
Some youngsters like her do not even have a shelter over them. Many manage by soliciting with containers before returning to derelict homes.
Despite this, every morning I meet children who sometimes walk for extended time, often on an empty stomach, to reach school. Their determination and strength give me the will to keep instructing.
It was also what gave me the strength to convince her parents and her husband so that this year, after a year out of school, she rejoined to class. I saw her joy when she came back, {proud|ple
