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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. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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