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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, 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 dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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