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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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