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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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