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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions 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 Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: security, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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