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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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