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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several