by Abdelrahman Mohammed Elbakoush
TRIPOLI, July 2 (Xinhua) -- Deep in a Libyan forest stood a bare classroom. A wall darkened with paint served as a blackboard. Students sat on the ground, without desks, textbooks, or even paper.
Built from branches and scraps of fabric, the shelter offered little protection from wind or rain. Yet for the Sudanese refugee children who gathered there, it was a refuge -- a place to learn, to pause, and, for a few hours, simply to be children.
The classroom was part of a Sudanese refugee camp in the Tajoura area, about 25 km east of the Libyan capital of Tripoli. The camp housed at least 200 people.
Earlier this year, when a friend told me about his efforts to help the refugees, I decided to see the camp for myself.
"We are very glad to see you today, all our teachers," the children sang in unison when I arrived, their voices rising from the forest.
Signs of hardship were everywhere. Many children were barefoot, their worn-out clothes too thin to keep out the cold. Some had come to class without food or basic supplies. They sat on the ground, sharing tattered notebooks.
In a corner of the classroom sat Dhafer Ali, 11, his right hand wrapped in gauze and bandages. His clothes were torn, and exhaustion was etched on his pale face.
Ali's father was missing in El Fasher, western Sudan. Ali arrived in Libya with his mother and four siblings. He dropped out of school in the third grade to help support his family.
In a soft voice, he told me how he had been attacked while searching for daily work. His injured hand, Ali said, could no longer hold a pen.
Ali's story was far from unique in the camp.
At the front of the classroom stood Al-Mabrouk Noon, an English teacher in his 60s, holding a piece of chalk.
Originally from western Sudan's Darfur region, Noon had fled violence across his homeland, from Khartoum to El Fasher, then to Chad, and across the desert to Niger, before making his way to Libya.
Along the way, he was abducted by an armed group in northwestern Libya and held captive for two years.
Later, a fire destroyed his small room in Tajoura, burning all his belongings, including his identification papers. "I became a man without an identity," he recalled.
A suggestion from a fellow refugee led him to start teaching. With almost nothing, Noon built the forest classroom.
A fellow teacher, Mohamed Abdullah, stood nearby -- barefoot, his voice steady as he taught Arabic.
"I have not heard from my wife and children in Sudan for over a year, since violence erupted in El Fasher," Abdullah said, adding that he did not know if they were still alive.
Outside the classroom, other struggles persisted.
Fatima Jaber, a 29-year-old mother of six, stepped out of a crowded shelter, her eyes fixed on the classroom.
In her arms was her 3-year-old daughter, Zahra, who was born with a serious condition involving fluid buildup in the brain. She urgently needed surgery, but the procedure was no longer covered by humanitarian aid. The cost -- around 20,000 Libyan dinars, or several thousand U.S. dollars -- was far beyond the family's reach. Fatima's husband left the camp in search of work every day, often returning empty-handed.
"I can endure anything," Fatima said, holding Zahra tightly, "but I cannot bear my daughter's suffering. I just want to save my child."
Fatima said she hopes her Zahra could one day join other children in the forest classroom.
According to a report released in April by the UN refugee agency, nearly 560,000 Sudanese refugees had fled to Libya since war broke out in April 2023 between the Sudanese Armed Forces and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces, a conflict that has killed tens of thousands and displaced millions inside Sudan and beyond its borders.
Amid the hardship, the makeshift classroom has become a place where education means an act of resistance and resilience, and where both teachers and students hold onto dignity and hope.
"We are very glad to see you today, all our teachers."
Long after I left the camp, the children's voices still echo in my mind. ■
