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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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