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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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