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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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