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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, 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 temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several