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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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