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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk 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 courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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