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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences 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 via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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