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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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