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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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 mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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