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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several