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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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