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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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