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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several