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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, 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 Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins 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. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

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

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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