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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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