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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. 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 mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused 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 permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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