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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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