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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several