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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 morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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