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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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