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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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