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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences 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 modest shelter where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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