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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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