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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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