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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 stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – 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 write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several