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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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