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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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