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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several