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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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