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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several