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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. 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 the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several