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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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