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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes 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 targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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