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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. 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 beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. 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 it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit literature, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several