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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

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

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several