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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered 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 beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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