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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several