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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, 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 schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several