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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 stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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