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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several