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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation 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 require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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