Once, when Nasser Nawaja was walking to school, he and his brother came across something that looked like an empty bottle. As small boys will, he picked it up, and pulled out the cork.

“It was a grenade - a stun grenade,” he says. “It burned my belly. I ran all the way back home.”

Mr Nawaja (pictured, below) is older now: he is the head of a five-village collective in the occupied Palestinian territories of the West Bank. But, in the area of the South Hebron Hills where he lives, going to school remains one of the most dangerous things that a child can do.

In the village of Susiya, where Mr Nawaja’s own extended family lives, the school is a low, one-storey building, its roof covered with corrugated iron. Susiya has no electricity or running water, so the school has its own water tank; villagers must fill it by hand. Just beyond the school building is a rusty slide and set of swings. Overlooking the school are the red-roofed houses of an Israeli settlement; at its edge is an Israeli army watchtower.

The Israeli government evicted Susiya’s residents from their original homes, so that the village could be demolished to allow for an archaeological dig.

Threat of destruction

The villagers now live in temporary housing - concrete floors, draped over with tarpaulins - across the road from the dig. But this new village is here unofficially: the homes, along with the school, all have demolition orders on them.

“I know my school could be demolished,” says eight-year-old Laish Nasser. “When I think about that, it makes me scared. I want to be a policeman when I grow up, to help the people of my village - to help fight the occupation.”

Ten-year-old Ahmed Nasser Nawaja (many Susiya residents share the same surname) nods in agreement. “It’s a little bit cold in the classroom now,” he says. “I sit with my arms crossed, to keep warm.

“I want a real school - two storeys high. A big field where I can play football. And computers in the classroom. And I want a blackboard, with coloured chalk: white, blue, green, yellow. We have a blackboard, but not a big one.”

The demolition order that is hanging over Susiya village means that many inhabitants have already left to live elsewhere. As a result, classes at the school are very small: there are only nine children in Laish’s class.

‘The settlers came with dogs - and the kids used to dream about it’

Classrooms are basic: desks, benches for the children and a blackboard. Children bring their own pencils, pens and notebooks, though there is a communal fund for those who cannot afford their own. While the village technically comes under direct Israeli control, there is no Israeli government input into the school: textbooks are provided by the Palestinian Authority.

For many of the children of the South Hebron Hills, however, the challenge is not what they learn in school or how: the challenge is getting to school in the first place.

Ola Nawaja sends her six children to the school in Susiya, and to the high school in the nearby town of Yatta. “The schools are good - the problem is the soldiers bother the kids on the way to school,” she says. “When the kids walk on the road, sometimes the military come past and drive very quickly. It’s very dangerous - the kids could be hit or harmed.

“And there were times when settlers came with dogs, and then the kids used to dream about it - think about it, and talk in their sleep. It’s definitely something I worry about.”

In the neighbouring village of At-Tuwani, the road to school is overlooked by an outpost of extremist Israelis, who have settled there in defiance of both the Israeli government and Palestinian locals. The settlers regularly stoned the children as they walked to school; after they beat up a human-rights activist, the Israeli army was sent in to guard the children every morning and afternoon.

Attacks on children

These particular soldiers’ job is to protect the Palestinians, so in this instance the children do not have to fear them. But there are other concerns.

“Sometimes the children have to wait for the military to come,” says Mr Nawaja. “If there’s no one to escort them, they have to do a massive roundabout, because the areas around are in control of the illegal outpost.” In those cases, the walk to school - less than a mile away - can take two hours.

“When soldiers are there also, it doesn’t necessarily prevent attacks,” says Mr Nawaja.

“Kids are still being stoned.”

Meanwhile, back at Susiya’s school, 13-year-old Mohammed Mahmoud chases a rooster across the muddy hillside. “I think a lot about the school being destroyed,” he says. “If it’s destroyed, I still want to keep studying until I grow up.

“But I hope the school will grow, and that there will be more classes and more space, inshallah.”

It is a sentiment shared by the adults of the village, huddled together to escape the biting winter wind across the hillside. “We’re scared of the destruction,” says Ola Nawaja. “We’re not sure where the kids will continue studying if that happens.

“Of course, we want a better school - a normal school, a big school.” She glances upwards, to the red roofs of the hilltop settlement. “Like the Jewish school.”

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