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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

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

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several