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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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