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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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