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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several