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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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