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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several