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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several