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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 entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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