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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our existence: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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