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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. 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, 40, teacher in al-Bureij 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 central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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