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Each year, on January 24, the International Day of Education reminds us of the critical role that learning plays in development, advancement, and empowerment of individuals and societies. Education is a human right, yet for millions of children in conflict zones, this right is often disrupted or denied. Despite these challenges, education in war—both formal and informal—often becomes a lifeline. At the War Childhood Museum, we keep stories that highlight the resilience of children in conflict, including how education shaped their experiences and gave them hope. Read some of these stories below. 

Pencil Case from Humanitarian Aid

Pencil Case

When the UN forces entered Goražde in ’94, they gave us, the children, these pencil cases. Up to then, we had only carried one pencil that could fit in our pocket to school. Each pencil case contained a fountain pen and a ballpoint pen but, since we didn’t have cartridges, we couldn’t use the former.

After the war, I started working in the same school I had attended during the aggression. That’s when I first started using the pencil case, fountain pen, and ballpoint pen that I had kept safe for years. Children often asked where I got such a pencil case, so it frequently prompted stories of my wartime childhood, my love of learning, and the importance of being in school.

Senada, b. 1980, Bosnia and Herzegovina

My Time in a Refugee Camp

PEbble

For three and a half years I lived in a tent in Lebanon’s Abrar Bar Elias camp. It was in this camp that I started going to school for the first time. I was 10. Prior to this, I was in Syria, and, because of the war, I couldn’t go to school. When I finally started school, I felt ashamed that I was in 1st grade with much younger kids. After some time, I stopped going altogether. Now, at

14, I want to go back to school, and I hope that I’ll be able to get a spot in the refugee school organized by SAWA, an organization working with refugees, as we, children from Syria, can’t go to a regular school in Lebanon. Now I know what I want, and I’m ready to study and put in effort to become a psychologist. Before leaving the camp to live in private housing, I wanted to take a reminder of the camp, and my friend Aya, with me. I collected some pebbles that were around our tent and cut out a part of the dish drying rack to take with me. In addition to cutting out a piece of the drying rack, I decided to take a piece of our tent’s thermal insulation because Aya and I wrote our names on it one afternoon. I’m giving parts of the insulation, drying rack, and a few pebbles to the WCM, while the rest will stay with me. I miss Aya. Even though life in the camp is harsh, I had many friends there. Many of my friends, who were around the ages of 14 and 15, sought a way out by finding a husband who lived close to the camp. I know of many girls who were tricked, who didn’t get married in the end. They would only end up pregnant, like my friend Farah, who was left pregnant and alone. The man disappeared. That is really horrible; it makes me really angry!

Bayan, b. 2005, Syria

Ballet in Time of War

Ballet

I started practicing ballet when I was 6, before the war had even started. Back then, I considered ballet a fun pastime, but it would soon become my greatest passion.

A ballet studio opened at the National Theater in Sarajevo in mid-1994. I passed the audition and continued going to ballet practices every day. A year later, I would move to Mladen Pozajić Elementary Music School where I would complete my education.

I was also at the music school in 1995, during the Markale Massacre. We were on the building’s upper floor, in the middle of a practice, when we heard the explosion. We went to the ground floor to hide, and when the shelling subsided, the teachers allowed us to leave school and hurry home. I left the school building and looked across the street, where I saw a man running, cradling his nearly severed arm. I will never forget that man. It was my greatest trauma during the war.

Mela, b. 1984, Bosnia and Herzegovina

My Companion, the Book

Book

Several days before the total escalation of the war on the 24th of February, I asked my mom to recommend a good book for me to read. Since my mom really loves F.M. Dostoevsky, she gave me one of her favorites—The Idiot.

I was still reading it when we had to leave our home in Zhytomyr near Kyiv. We could take just a few things with us, basic necessities mostly, but I decided to bring this book too. I really wanted to finish reading it, and it proved a good companion during this unexpected journey. Now I want to give it to the Museum in hopes that I will soon return to my home in Ukraine and have a chance to buy myself another one.

Aisha, b. 2007, Ukraine

Pencil Sharpener

Pencil Sharpener

Classes were held in different places around the neighborhood. It was quite dangerous to venture out to those spots. Nonetheless, we attended school regularly.  

We were given a lot of homework during that period, which kept us from spending time outside. For us, the children, that served as an additional protection from wartime violence. 

This is the pencil sharpener I used in that period in order to sharpen my pencils for the exams and written assignments.

Sanin, b. 1981, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Certificate of Appreciation

Certificate of Appreciation

When the shelling was heavy, our neighbour took us to his house. We stayed there for two days. Then, we joined my grandfather in a camp in Lebanon. Now, we live in a tent.

This is the first Certificate of Appreciation that I have ever received. I got it after midterms because I had good grades. It’s such an important thing to me. My little brother ripped it. When I told my teacher about what happened, she gave me a new certificate. I like the teachers in my school because they are nice, and the school is very colourful.

Whenever I needed to feel proud or to encourage myself to do something difficult, I would just take the certificate out of my drawer and look at it. It gave me strength.

Maha, b, 2004, Syria

My First, Red Report Card

Report Card

The war’s beginning “forced” me to hurry up and finish the first grade. As a real geek, of course, I had all A’s and positive reviews from the teachers’ council written into my beautiful red report card. Vacation had ended, but the war was still raging. I started second grade in a makeshift classroom in a former billiard club. Improvised schools, classrooms—and report cards. At the end of the year, I begged my teachers to write my grades into my beautiful red report card— but they would not do it! We got small, sad looking, paper report cards that looked like pages that had been pulled out of our usual report cards! And that continued into third, fourth, and fifth grades. Although the school had its “official” paper report card, I continued to scribble my grades into my red report card so that they would all be in one place. I kept doing this until fourth grade. I lost my second-grade report card in the intermittent years. Now, this red one is my only reminder of the one subject in my eight years of schooling that I did not finish with an A. It was in second grade, in a makeshift classroom, and the teacher was testing my times tables: “How much is 9×9?” “89,” I said. Then I corrected my answer to “87,” and finally to “81.” It was already too late—“Sit, B!”

Merima, b. 1984, Bosnia and Herzegovina